


Send The Pain Below

by curiousair



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Anxiety, Arguing, Bottom Eddie Kaspbrak, Dialogue Heavy, Don't read this if you wanna have a good time, Eddie Kaspbrak Being an Asshole, Enemies to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Violence, Other: See Story Notes, Restaurants, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Smut, Top Richie Tozier, it's 2006 and Richie has an ugly nose ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiousair/pseuds/curiousair
Summary: “Long time no see. Still a snobby, asthmatic, germaphobe freak?”“Basically. You still an attention-starved druggie loser?”Eddie works at a restaurant in his shitty hometown, Richie Tozier is his new co-worker, and Eddie still hates him as much as he did ten years ago.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 38
Kudos: 121





	Send The Pain Below

**Author's Note:**

> I heard this fandom doesn't really like edgy stuff so naturally I wrote this toxic shit lmao. If you're here from my last story and are looking for fluff, you're in the wrong place. Ain’t no fluff here, boo. This is not a love story. If one person says they hate me, then I’ve won. (My best friend hated it so much that she felt the need to write fix-it fic for it before it was even over).
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING:** homophobic slurs, other not-so-nice insults (including one character telling another to k*ll themselves), physical violence (including an attempted hate crime), references to drug use/addiction, references to anxiety/anxiety attacks, minor references to past child abuse, minor references to past bullying, very brief non-consensual kissing, brief references to suicidal ideation.
> 
> Title Credit: Send the Pain Below, by Chevelle

Eddie hates Richie Tozier. 

No, it isn’t an exaggeration or fucked up misguided lust. It’s the kind of deep-seated hate that makes you itch.

Before now, it’s been almost ten years since they’ve seen each other. The last being a particularly unpleasant run-in at a local hardcore punk show after their high school graduation, right before Eddie moved on and left that life behind. 

It’s been six months since he was forced to move back to this shitty, decrepit hometown to take care of his mother’s end-of-life affairs. Of course, it was just like her to drop dead after two weeks, the second he settled in. Now he’s stuck, grad school is on hold for the second time, and he’s working a dead end food service job because he blew all his cash making the move across the country. 

The upside is that he gets to see Beverly, Bill, and Mike almost every day.

The downside is running into small-minded, small town people he never wanted to see again. Like Richie Tozier. 

He walks in right in the middle of a lunch rush, when Eddie is using the POS system at the host station, and wastes no time making his unfortunate presence known.

“Hey! It’s Eddie Spaghetti!”

Eddie is thrown back into high school. Richie’s loud, braying laugh and his predictable taunts. The entire class of ‘96 standing idly by as he got picked on by another loser. 

“It’s me, Trashmouth.” 

Eddie looks up. In all his glory, there’s Richie Tozier, looking more or less the same as he did a decade ago, aside from being taller. Still wearing ugly clothes with ripped seams held together with rusty safety pins and jeans with DIY patches over the knees, like he fell out of a fucking zine from 1994.

“How could I forget?” 

“Long time no see.” Richie leans against the counter, never one to respect personal space. “Still a snobby, asthmatic, germaphobe freak?” 

“Basically,” Eddie answers, dropping his gaze back to the POS system. “You still an attention-starved druggie loser?” 

Richie scoffs. “Suck my dick.” 

Without missing a beat, Eddie mutters, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

“And you wouldn’t? Or, wait- you’re one of those reformed queers, aren’t you?” There’s laughter in Richie’s voice, a grating, mocking tone. “How was conversion therapy? I’ve heard it’s a great place to pick up dudes.” 

“No, still a queer,” Eddie drones, and glances up briefly at him. Same stupid hair, slightly better glasses, new nose piercing with a silver hoop through the nostril. “I see you've finally stopped lying to yourself too." 

“Good eye.” 

Eddie prints the checks for his tables and looks at him fully. “What do you want?” 

Richie grins, wide and mischievous. “It’s my first day.” 

Eddie gives him a questioning look. “Your first day…?” 

“Here. At work.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me— _Bev_!” Eddie all but stomps away from the host stand to find Bev in the back, restocking the salad station. 

“Guess who starts work today.” 

Bev pokes her head out of the salad prep fridge. “Who?” 

“Richie Tozier.” Just saying his name out loud makes Eddie shudder in disgust.

“Oh, right. I referred him,” she says cheerfully, and goes back to work. “I didn’t know he got hired. That’s so cool.” 

Even after Richie fell out of the group and started hanging out with actual junkie punks and lowlifes instead of just appropriating the culture like the rest of the loser kids did, he and Bev stayed close. They always had a weird connection, something about childhood trauma, which really isn’t special to Eddie considering he dealt with Munchausen by proxy until he got too smart at the ripe age of 14. Oh, you were a _little_ _sad_ when you were a kid? Big fucking whoop.

“Why?”

“Huh?” Bev brings a stack of plates to the cutting board and dumps identical heaps of lettuce onto each one..

“Why did you refer him?” Eddie asks. “Serving isn’t rocket science, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t find some way to fuck it up.”

“Because he needed a job,” she answers simply. “And don’t even start with me. I know you don’t like him, but you’ll have to get over it.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, because he’s not allowed to be mad at his friend for being a better person than him. If it were up to him, Richie would be standing outside spinning a sign in the rain. 

At the front of the house, he finds Richie chatting up Travis, the shift manager. He’s a barely 22-year-old college drop out and having to take orders from him irks Eddie more every day. Good ol’ small town nepotism. 

Richie turns to look at Eddie when he walks out, crossing his arms. “That’s great, actually. Eddie and I knew each other in high school. It’ll be nice to catch up.” He gives Eddie a wink, and that stupid fucking grin reappears. 

“Richie is going to shadow you for the rest of lunch,” Travis explains. “Before the dinner rush, show him around the restaurant and throw him a few of your tables.”

“Sounds great,” Eddie grits, forcing a smile. He waits for Travis to walk away, then reaches under the counter to grab an apron. He tosses the rolled up fabric to Richie. “Put this on and follow me. If you think it’s a good idea to say anything else to me, think again.”

Richie chooses to ignore Eddie’s simple request. They round the corner to the main dining area, and he says, “So, what brings you back into town? Couldn’t cut it in the city of angels?”

“I literally just asked you not to speak to me,” Eddie grumbles as they approach one of his parties. He plasters on a smile and places the check holder and two mints at the edge of the table. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Once they’re out of earshot of the customers, Richie presses himself too close to Eddie’s side and says, “You’re so _good_ at your customer service voice. Almost makes me forget how much of an asshole you are.”

Eddie groans and walks ahead, stepping into one of the private rooms to collect a credit card receipt. Richie follows, leaning over Eddie's shoulder to speak into his ear.

"The silent treatment only makes me worse, by the way."

This is typical Richie. It's day one and Eddie is ready to pull his hair out. Or rip Richie's tongue out with his bare hands. It's no wonder that Richie was almost as big of a target for bullying as Eddie in school. The only thing Richie had going for him then was his seemingly untapped well of charisma—at least he could defend himself without getting choked up, and make friends without trying too hard. At least he didn’t have the worst case of learned helplessness in the world, unlike Eddie. This only put him a step ahead of Eddie on the high school food chain. But, as in any food chain, the smaller animals get eaten for survival. And much to his detriment, Eddie has always been the smallest.

“If you don’t back the fuck up, I’ll scream,” Eddie tells him, taking his server book out of his apron pocket. He waves it vaguely to the left and then to the right. “This is side A, that’s side B. Tables 1 through 10 on this side including both private rooms. Tables 11 through 20 on the other side, not including the bar.”

“Cool, cool,” Richie says, then turns to face Eddie fully. “Remember the last time we saw each other?"

"No," Eddie lies, placing the credit card slip into his book. “I have much better things to do than reminisce about high school.”

"You're a bad liar.” Richie chuckles and shakes his head. Then, he holds out a hand to keep Eddie from walking away. "But in case you’re telling the truth, let me refresh your memory. The night of graduation. A shitty band with no bass player on stage. You, a tipsy twink, scowling in the corner and aggressively applying hand sanitizer. Me, a drunk, lanky fag with nothing to lose. The second I opened my mouth to talk to you, I threw up on your shoes. And what did you do? You screamed, called me a fucking idiot, smacked the glasses off my face, and stepped on them.”

“That’s not how it happened,” Eddie grumbles. 

Richie blocks the door to the private room, crossing his arms. “Thought you didn’t remember?”

“I’m done talking to you.” Eddie pushes past him, and Richie follows close behind.

“Tell me how you think it happened.”

Eddie stops in the hall near the bathroom and turns to him. “I ignored you, you called me a freak and a snobby twink until I paid attention to you, I called you a fucking idiot, you tried to fucking _touch me_ , I broke your glasses, and _then_ you threw up on me.”

Richie smiles. “Well, Eddie Spaghetti, it can’t be both. One of us is misremembering.”

“Easy,” Eddie says. “You’re right about yourself being a lanky fag, and I’m right about everything else. That being said, you really don’t need to talk to me anymore. I don’t want to talk to you, I can barely stomach looking at you, so if you want this to be a pleasant time for you, and you want to keep this job, I would suggest that you at least _pretend_ that you’re not a fucking idiot.”

“You know what I think?” Richie smirks and once again, leans into Eddie’s personal space. “I think it’s so refreshing that you haven’t changed much at all. We’re going to have fun working together.”

///

Eddie is a perfectionist. He always has been. Even when he was sixteen, sleeping off his hangover on Sunday afternoons and spending all of his money on beer and gigs instead of saving for a car, he was a straight A student. But unlike his younger, messier self, his brain isn't muddled by the tragic desire to be liked and to fit in. When he got into his top university choice, it was goodbye to binge drinking and oversleeping, goodbye to shows at sketchy venues, and as of a month ago, no more cigarettes. Going to school as far away as possible was his plan to get out and start over as a new person. Everything was going well for him there—great friends with more refined tastes, good grades, better opportunities. The only thing that hindered him, because he allowed it, was his brain's fucked up, backwards way of perceiving and dealing with stress. It cost him time, energy, and money but he had no other choice than to push through it. After all, he'd gone through worse than a few public breakdowns, a couple of unplanned mental health leaves, failing a whole semester due to a sudden onset of agoraphobia, and another due to a _brief_ hospitalization. Nothing like a fucked up childhood and adolescence to make everything else seem easy in comparison.

Even though being back home is the last thing Eddie wanted for himself, this shitty job is easy to excel at. He has put a lot of work into being perfect, not being a loser, and not wasting his life away. Now he’s here, working alongside the very person he never wanted to become. Truly, he’s better than this.

“Right behind!” Richie shouts, barreling through the back of the house, holding six plates of salad and appetizers at once. “Coming in hot! Make way! I’ve got hungry people to feed!”

Despite being loud and obnoxious, Richie is a good server—it doesn’t hurt Eddie _too_ much to admit that. He’s good with customers, he’s fast and efficient, and he learned the flow of the restaurant within two shifts.

But, that doesn't mean his presence isn't driving Eddie up the fucking wall. Eight days have felt like thirty. Each shift has started civil enough, but always devolves into passive aggressive remarks, muttered insults, and 'accidental' shoves while they fight for space at the order window. Richie is faux-cheery, always. He knows it gets under Eddie's skin to smile as he calls him a freak or a brat. He knows that they _have_ to speak to each other to work together, so he takes advantage of it, rambling nonsense when there’s a lull in between customers. He knows that if he says enough of _just the right thing_ , Eddie will snap.

If their past was a purgatory, then this must be the fifth circle of hell.

In some ways, what Richie didn't do back then was worse than what he did do. The taunts and insults were harsh—but looking up to see Richie, someone who once called himself Eddie’s friend, standing there silently as someone slammed Eddie’s face into lockers or held him down, threatening to sodomize him...something about that felt worse. 

It’s a point of contention inside of him, the unbearable discomfort of being bitter facing the facade of desperately pretending not to be. 

Eddie isn’t perfect, but he's better than he was before, he’s better than this town, and he’s sure as hell better than Richie Tozier.

On Richie’s first Saturday night at the restaurant, Eddie has the privilege of serving a group of sixteen with him. Richie makes a stupid joke about ‘graciously’ letting Eddie take the lead, knowing damn well that would be the case with or without his permission. 

Richie takes all of the drink orders and Eddie takes the appetizer orders, then they split the table to take the entree orders. Getting the orders together and in the system runs so smoothly that Eddie should have known that it was too good to be true. 

When they bring the entrees out, Eddie realizes that Richie was too distracted running his mouth and joking with the customers to write down the correct orders. Now Richie is standing stupidly at the other end of the long table, with three spaghetti pomodoro plates instead of three spaghetti carbonara plates. 

It’s an honest mistake, one Eddie has even made before, but it’s still easy for that familiar itch of annoyance to crawl up his back. He swoops in, grabbing the plates from Richie’s hands and placing them back on the tray. 

"Sorry, Richie is new and a lot of things here are still confusing for him. I'll fix this for you and I'll take the appetizers off the check as well. Again, I'm sorry about that. If you need anything let _me_ know."

At the POS system, as Eddie is fixing Richie’s fuck-up, Richie sidles up next to him and offers a half-assed ‘thank you.’

“That was passive-aggressive and rude as fuck, but I appreciate you using your control issues to help me out.”

“Pay attention next time, you stupid fuck,” Eddie tells him, then turns on his heel to hand the revised ticket to the line cook. “And that wasn’t for you, shithead. I'm covering my own ass.”

Richie grins. “You have such a colorful vocabulary and I admire that.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go wait at the order window?”

Later, after Eddie has seen that their party is satisfied, Richie intercepts him as he’s walking through the kitchen with a 5-gallon carton of ice cream. Ignoring Eddie’s objections, he takes the carton out of Eddie’s arms, hitches it up on his shoulder, and carries it to the prep station. 

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Eddie says, prying the lid off the carton. He goes to the sink, washes and dries his hands, then puts gloves on before even touching the ice cream scoop.

Richie brings the ice cream dishes to the counter. “It’s faster if I help.”

Eddie slides the dishes to his side of the counter and begins to scoop perfect balls of ice cream into each one. “I’m fine. Go do something else.”

“You’re being fucking weird, dude.” Richie picks up a random metal serving spoon and stabs it into the ice cream. “It’s my table too, it’s not fair for you to do all the work.”

Eddie nearly screams. “You haven’t washed your hands, you disgusting pig.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re about to have a heart attack over my potentially unwashed hands,” Richie laughs and continues to absolutely butcher the surface of the ice cream with the spoon. “Can you relax and stop being a freak for like five minutes and let me help you?”

“I can’t relax if you won’t leave me the fuck alone.” Eddie shoves a pitcher of water into Richie’s hand. “Go clear some plates and refill waters.”

Eddie pays no mind to Richie muttering insults on his way out, and focuses on the task at hand. Once each scoop is topped with a swirl of whipped cream and a cherry, he stacks them on a tray with a lone slice of cheesecake and sets out to the dining area.

As he passes the kitchen, he hears Richie laughing with the line cook and a busboy. He has the pitcher of water in hand, still full.

“Did you clear plates for me?” Eddie asks. “I won’t have any room for these if you didn’t.” 

All three of them turn to look at him, and the busboy is visibly stifling laughter.

“Guys, who am I?” Richie puts a hand on his hip, scowls, and wags his finger at them. “ _You haven’t washed your hands, you disgusting pig. Pay attention, you stupid fuck. You’re a shithead and I’m a stuck up bitch that needs to control everything and can't take a joke._ ” 

The room erupts into laughter, which is all too familiar to Eddie.

Instead of slinking away, Eddie swallows down the anxious feeling and steps into the entryway of the kitchen. "That was quite the performance, Richie. But, no matter how funny they think you are, they're not going to let you suck them off. This is just desperate and sad." 

Richie smiles, delighted to receive any kind of attention. "See what I mean, guys? Can't take a joke.

“I know what your problem is.” Richie walks across the kitchen to Eddie, moves in close, and lowers his voice. "I think you need to get laid. Ironically, a quick fuck might help you get the stick out of your ass. They have websites for that, you know. Or, we could work something out. No strings attached." 

“Right, of course.” Eddie nods and takes a pointed step back. “I can barely resist your poor excuse for a sense of humor, chain smoking, and adult ADHD. You are the definition of attractive.”

Richie steps forward, chuckling. "Aw, you're so _charming_ , Eds. You must be fighting guys off with a stick."

“Oh, and I’m sure there are men knocking down doors to be with _you_.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” 

Eddie sighs, actually exhausted by his presence. “Let me say this slowly, just in case you don’t understand... _fuck off._ ”

“Fine,” Richie says, in his patented faux-cheery tone. Then, he looks down at the tray of ice cream, dips his middle finger into a swirl of whipped cream, and makes a show of dragging his tongue over it.

With a wink, he walks away, making sure to bump Eddie’s shoulder on the way out of the kitchen. It knocks Eddie off balance enough that the single plate of cheesecake slides off the tray and falls to the floor. 

///

House parties in this town are predisposed to being drab and boring, even if one of his very best friends is the host. 

Eddie stands in the packed living room of Bev’s childhood home next to Bill, the shy boy of everyone’s dreams, and Mike, who is way too cool to still live in this shithole. There’s some awful pop-rock playing from somewhere in the room and Bev is in front of them, gushing about her new boyfriend, Ben, whom they’ve never met.

“T-tell us m-more about how hot he is,” Bill quips, bringing a red solo cup to his lips. Next to him, Mike laughs and mimics the action. They both look to Eddie and Eddie mimes zipping his lips.

Bev scoffs. “Shut up. He’s hotter than you three assholes.”

“Stan too?" Mike asks. “He’d be offended to hear that.”

Eddie hasn’t seen Stan since their junior year of high school, before Stan got accepted into a fancy private school. The rest of the group sees him every year, at seemingly random times. “When is he coming out this way?”

“In a few weeks, I think?” Mike says. “He never confirms anything until the day before.”

“With his w-wife?” Bill asks. 

“I hope so!” Bev says. “I’m starting to think he’s keeping her from us.”

“Or this town,” Eddie comments. When he launches into another rant about how regressive the town is, all of his friends groan. 

In the middle of his passionate speech about homophobia and evil conservatives, Richie joins their group. Eddie stops talking, his words trailing off when he sees the guy hanging off of Richie’s arm. 

Bill, the sweetheart, breaks the awkward silence and asks Richie how he’s been. 

“I’m good, actually,” Richie says, draping his arm around the random guy. “I’ve been clean for 45 days, so that’s a thing.”

A flood of congratulations comes next and Eddie can’t help what comes out of his mouth in response.

"Yeah, congrats on the bare minimum." 

Immediately, Bev smacks him on the chest and Mike jabs him in the side with his elbow. “Shut the fuck up, man.”

Richie’s smile doesn’t even falter. He looks right at Eddie and says, “It’s fine. I know some people need to put other people down to feel good about themselves.”

Bev holds her arms out between them. “If you two can’t be nice, one of you has to go and I’d hate to choose.” 

“I’ll be good,” Richie says, still staring Eddie down. 

The conversation changes subject, and Richie seems to forget that there are other people present because he starts to put on quite the display of public affection with his boy toy, who actually hasn’t looked at anyone else since joining the circle. They’re whispering in each other’s ears, giggling, trading gentle touches. Like some kind of car wreck, Eddie can’t look away. 

Eddie’s intrusive thoughts work in funny ways. Most of them are irrational, nonsensical, and rarely speak to his actual feelings. As he watches Richie brush his thumb across the guy’s cheek, two thoughts pop into his head, almost simultaneously. 

_‘When’s the last time anyone touched me like that?’_ And right after, ‘ _I wonder what his hands would feel like…’_

He tears his eyes away, shoves down the weird feeling in his gut, and glances around the room. 

There's a commotion at the front door and it’s like the universe has a personal vendetta against Eddie because Henry fucking Bowers steps into the house. 

Eddie's stomach lurches. Suddenly he’s 15, hiding in a bathroom stall with his feet on the toilet seat, trying to hyperventilate as quietly as possible.

Henry Bowers didn’t fit anywhere on the high school food chain. He was too aggressive and fucked up to be popular, and too mean and bigoted to fit in with other losers. If you ever made the mistake of looking him in the eyes, you were his next target. No one had the strength or will to challenge him, so he did whatever the fuck he wanted. Anything and everything, stopping short of actual murder. It’s likely that none of this has changed simply because people like him peaked in 6th grade and everyone in this town is just as stunted.

“Someone has to get him out of here,” Bev hisses, bringing Eddie back to reality. 

“Who invited him?” Eddie asks and, as inconspicuous as possible, fits himself between Bill and Mike. “He can’t just show up wherever the fuck he wants.”

“He invites himself,” Mike says. 

Bev motions wildly at Bowers, who is parting the crowd like a leper. “Bill, Mike, go do something.”

Bill frowns. “F-fuck n-no dude.” 

“Oh, so I’m just supposed to let him stay?” 

Richie speaks up, reminding Eddie that he’s here. His boy toy has slipped away, blending in with the rest of the townies. “If no one looks him in the eye, they’ll be fine.” 

“If Ben was here, he’d stand up to Bowers,” Bev says.

“Well, you’re fucking Ben so that’s different,” Mike says. 

Bill cuts in with, “N-not that we d-don’t want to p-protect you, Bev.”

“They just value their internal organs is what they’re saying,” Richie adds.

Meanwhile, Eddie is verging on a fucking anxiety attack. He and Bowers lock eyes from across the room and Eddie bolts in the opposite direction, making a beeline for the kitchen. How fucking pathetic is he, at nearly 30, hiding from his high school bully. It’s a primal thing he thinks, knowing that for the rest of your life, no matter how successful or perfect you are, you will always be someone’s prey.

He pushes through the crowded kitchen and finds the makeshift ‘open bar.’ As he attempts to refill his drink with shaking hands, someone bumps him from behind and makes him splash vodka over his hands. Eddie turns, looking for the offender, and spots Richie moving through throngs of people. 

Seeing red, and admittedly thrown by the Bowers sighting, Eddie splashes his full drink at Richie’s back. Some of it lands on other people, but most of it soaks through Richie’s t-shirt. 

Richie turns slowly, pushing back through to face him. “I try really hard to be nice to you.” 

“That’s a fucking lie. And anyway, I don’t want you to try to do anything with me,” Eddie spits. “I want you to leave me alone.” 

Richie smiles, lifts his cup over Eddie’s head and tips it over. Ice and watered-down soda soaks Eddie’s hair and cascades down his face. 

Through the shock of cold, Eddie picks up an abandoned drink from the counter and throws the entire thing at him, cup and all. Rum and coke splashes both of them, but it’s worth seeing Richie flinch. “Fuck you.” 

Richie laughs, licking his lips. “Fuck you too.”

It’s a few long seconds of them staring at each other, daring the other to make a move. Eddie’s jaw is clenched so hard that his teeth hurt. Richie smirks back at him, waiting. 

Then, the group of girls to Eddie’s left disperse, drawing his attention just in time to look over his shoulder and see Bowers making his way through the kitchen.

Eddie’s turns, but his feet are stuck to the floor. It could be seen as a good thing, that he isn’t running like a scared child. But, he knows that this panic response is just as bad. 

Bowers approaches him, gives him one look, and shoves him so hard that he stumbles backwards into Richie’s chest. Richie catches him, helping him regain his balance. Eddie shakes him off, taking another step back.

“Watch it, faggot,” Bowers says, and helps himself to an entire bottle of whiskey before walking away. It’s barely a relief, because Eddie is hurtling towards an anxiety attack at full speed.

Next to him, Richie is frozen—for once, he’s quiet and there’s no stupid smile on his face. 

Eddie pushes his way out of the kitchen and through the living room with that familiar tightness in his chest, weak knees, and a racing heartbeat. He doesn’t stop until he’s in his car, alone, his inhaler clutched in his hand.

///

Until today, Eddie has never been formally reprimanded by a boss or manager. When he was young it was his irrational fear of getting in trouble that made him the poster child for following school protocol. As a teen, it was his budding perfectionism that led him to doing ridiculous shit like finishing his homework in a dimly lit basement as he and his friends shared a cheap twelve-pack of beer. 

He admits that he has an extremely unhealthy fear of authority and it may or may not go hand-in-hand with his control issues. And those control issues _might_ have something to do with his shitty childhood and abusive mother. But, he’s a fucking adult now and he makes his own decisions. If he does everything right, fewer things will go wrong.

It’s the simplest formula, unless Richie is involved. 

As Eddie stands in the manager’s office with Richie at his side and Mary, the owner of the restaurant, staring them down from her desk, he silently scolds himself for letting the situation get out of hand.

Still, despite the anxiety and stress of being written up, Eddie doesn’t actually regret calling Richie a ‘useless shit for brains.’ He just wishes it wasn’t in front of three other co-workers and the single customer that happened to hear it from the host station. 

“It was a fucking accident.” Richie groans and drags a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, how many times do I have to say it?”

"You put your order in after mine, why would it come up first? Not only that, but my _name_ and order number were on the ticket-” Eddie stops and takes a breath, composing himself before he completely loses it. “But maybe that's my fault for thinking you can read or tell time."

Richie sucks his teeth and says, "Well, if you're going to be such a bitch about it, maybe I'm not sorry."

Mary clears her throat. “Alright, cut it out. You two don’t have to like each other, but you need to find a way to work together. If I hear about you two going at it again, I’ll have to let both of you go.”

Eddie leaves the office feeling like a kicked puppy, and he and Richie finish the rest of the shift without saying another word to each other.

Unfortunately, the subsequent calm only lasts a few days. For some reason, Richie chooses the same shift in which Eddie is yelled at by a middle-aged woman, shorted on almost all of his tips, and stuck with a party of twelve to be more of a piece of shit than usual. 

In the span of a few hours, Richie skips Eddie in the server rotation multiple times, takes Eddie’s server book and misplaces it, and drops a glass of wine on his shoes. Of course, Richie claims that these are all accidents.

Eddie spends the whole shift holding in his rage, but when the night is over and all the customers are gone, he follows Richie to the cold, wet back alley behind the kitchen and slams the door behind him. 

“Why are you provoking me?” 

A breeze blows through the alley, and Eddie belatedly realizes just how cold it is outside. He presses himself against the wall next to a high stack of crates in an attempt to block the cold air. 

Richie puts a cigarette between his lips and shakes his head. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m not trying to provoke you. That would fit your narrative pretty well though, wouldn’t it?”

“Bullshit,” Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest and trying not to shiver.

“Listen, I’m not gonna fuck with your money.” Richie lights the cigarette and takes a drag. “It was really busy tonight, I got all scatter-brained and took your book from the front counter instead of mine. That was my bad and I’m sorry. The host messed up the rotation and I wasn’t paying attention because...well, you know how I am. Again, sorry.”

Eddie softens, just a little. “And the wine?”

“Okay, that was all me,” Richie says with a smirk. “It was a joke. I had to get you back for making my shoes smell like rum for a week. My sponsor literally thought I had started drinking again.”

As quickly as it left, Eddie anger returns. “A joke? Usually jokes are required to be funny.” 

“I thought it was pretty funny,” Richie says, looking him over. He holds his cigarette between his lips, shrugs off his jacket, and offers it to Eddie. “I also think it’s hilarious how cold you are, but not enough to let you freeze to death.”

Eddie shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

Richie waves the jacket at him. “Don’t be weird.”

“Keep it,” Eddie insists. “I can get my jacket from my car if I need.”

“So, you’ll wear mine until you go back inside.”

Eddie narrows his eyes at him. “I said I’m fine.”

“I won’t stop until you put it on.”

With an exasperated sigh, Eddie snatches the jacket from him. It reeks of cigarettes, but at least it’s warm.

Richie steps back grins. “I have to say, you look adorable in that.”

"You make it really hard not to hit you,” Eddie responds, hugging the oversized jacket over his chest.

"I’m surprised you haven’t. Are you waiting on me to hit you first?” Richie asks, in his ever-present mocking tone. “Ooh, you’d love that wouldn’t you?” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “No, because I know you wouldn’t. You’re a pussy.” 

Richie huffs out a laugh, blowing smoke out of his nose. “You need to relax, man. You’re so wound up, like all the time.” 

"What is so funny?” Eddie asks, suddenly itching with anger. He wishes he didn’t get so riled up so quickly, but Richie makes it easy. Plus, who likes being condescended to? There’s no way that Richie doesn’t know what he’s doing when he laughs in Eddie’s face. “Why do you always fucking laugh when you’re talking to me?" 

"I don’t know, nervousness? A defense mechanism? A little of both?” Richie pauses, and brings a finger to his chin as if he’s thinking, then shrugs. “It’s mostly because dealing with you is sometimes exhausting, dude, and if I don’t laugh I don’t know what I’d do." 

"Dealing with _me_ is exhausting? Fuck you." Eddie is as bewildered as he is angry. Who on earth is more exhausting to deal with than Richie Tozier?

"You know what’s fucked up?” Richie says, dropping his gaze to his feet. “I think we could be pretty good friends if you weren't… like this.” 

They were friends for a few months in high school, and that didn’t even work out—if he’s wary about the idea of them being friends as adults, it isn’t _his_ fault. 

"Not only are you stupid, you’re delusional too. That could not and would not ever happen." 

"Why not?” Richie looks up, wiggling his eyebrows. “Too afraid you’d fall for me?"

"No,” Eddie says, easily, “because you'd still be a piece of shit and a fuck up." 

The sharp, angry tension between them returns, and Eddie knows that Richie can feel it too. He blows out a puff of smoke and chuckles. "Oh, bravo, Eddie. Love that. I've _never_ heard those before. What do you want me to do? Cry? Jesus, I thought _I_ was fucked up. I would love to think that this kind of behavior is special, just for me, but Bev says otherwise. You’re just an insufferable asshole, even to your own friends. Maybe I shouldn’t ask for anything different.”

Eddie blinks, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. “You’re a liar.”

“I’m a stupid fuck, a disgusting pig, and a useless shit for brains, but I’m not a liar,” Richie says, and leaves it at that.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eddie scoffs. Bev wouldn’t say anything bad about him. They’re too close. 

“Fine. I’m not gonna try and convince you. You can ask her yourself.”

“You know what? I’m not going to let a fucking nobody like you throw my friends under the bus just to get a rise out of me.”

“Ooh,” Richie coos, “A _nobody_. Never heard that one either.”

Eddie clenches his jaw, the smirk on Richie’s face fueling his temper even more. “What about this one? You’re a nobody that uses your shitty humor to overcompensate for being nothing more than a failure, a loser addict, and a townie faggot.”

Richie laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Any sort of satisfaction Eddie gets from that is squashed when Richie closes in on him. He places one hand on the wall next to Eddie’s shoulder and brings his cigarette to his lips with the other, blowing smoke directly into Eddie’s face. With nowhere to go, Eddie coughs, blocked between Richie’s arm and the stack of crates. Richie looms over him, silent and stoic, and all the words dry up in Eddie’s mouth.

"If I was a worse person, I would have fucked you up a long time ago.” Richie is quieter than Eddie has ever heard him, his voice steady. He drops his cigarette and puts it out with his heel. “But...I don't want that, I've never wanted that. Do you? If you think it would help you justify saying the worst possible shit to me and hurting my feelings on purpose, then I'll do it." 

If he could, Eddie would curl into himself and disappear. Even with all the shit he’s been through, he still hasn’t figured out how to properly deal with feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Somehow, he manages to choke out a few words. “I don’t want that.”

“Okay.” Richie stays put, but his expression relaxes. He starts to say something, but stops himself short and chews his lower lip. The way he’s staring, focused and slightly too intense, is fucking unsettling.

“ _What_?”

“Listen,” Richie sighs, once again lowering his gaze to the ground. “I know I'm an annoying shithead and I don't make it easy for you to be nice to me…I just-" 

Eddie waits, but just for a second. “You just _what_?”

“I don’t know,” Richie answers, and it’s honestly a relief. 

Eddie has always maintained that a genuine conversation about their past is what would help him let go of the anger he’s been harboring for a decade. But now that they’re at the cusp of that conversation, he finds that it’s the last fucking thing he wants. There's more to this than his bitterness over being teased in high school. The realization hits like him a fucking truck.

Above them, thunder rumbles in the sky. Both of them look up at the same time, as rain begins to fall.

Eddie ducks under Richie’s arm, moving to go back inside. 

Richie grabs his hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Wait." 

For a second, Eddie is thrown by the touch and by Richie’s tight grip. But he collects himself quickly, pulling his hand away. "Don't,” he says, and steps into the restaurant, leaving Richie out in the rain.

Once he’s inside, curling both his shaking hands into fists, he remembers he’s still wearing Richie’s jacket.

///

It’s still raining a week later when Bev climbs into Eddie’s passenger’s seat, bemoaning her sore feet. 

“I hate night shifts,” she says as Eddie pulls out of the parking lot. “Thanks for the ride. Ben says he appreciates it too. He already hates it enough when I walk home during the day.”

“Sounds like a real Prince Charming,” Eddie says. “He should use some of that young architect money to fix your car.”

“Do you always have to be sarcastic?”

“Fine, fine, I’m sorry.”

Bev turns on the radio and hums along to a pop-punk song. In the silence, the question that has been burning a hole in the back of his mind for a week becomes even more urgent. 

“Do you talk about me to Richie?” 

“He talks about you,” Bev says, changing the radio station.

“What do you mean?” Eddie asks, then cringes at how insecure he sounds. “Like, does he say anything bad about me?”

“Well, uh, he did ask if you were as— wait, what words did he use again?” Bev pauses, chewing her lip. “Oh, right, _uptight_ and _rude_. He asked me if you’re as uptight and rude with me and Mike and Bill and I said ‘sometimes, yeah.’” 

“Bev!” Eddie grips the steering wheel, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road. “You can’t tell him that shit. He’ll use it against me!” 

“Well it’s true!” Bev throws up her hands in defeat when Eddie glares at her. “Sorry, next time I’ll keep my mouth shut.” 

“Please do that. I say that in the nicest way possible. And maybe…,” Eddie stops, unsure if it’s pride or shame that makes it hard to get the next words out. “I don’t know, I’ll try not to be such an asshole all the time.” 

“I’ll believe that when I see it—oh, hey!” Bev frantically begins to roll down the window. “Speak of the devil.”

Eddie follows her line of sight and there’s Richie, making his way down the sidewalk, seemingly unfazed by the rain, wearing his jacket with the hood only halfway on. 

“Hey! Richie!” she shouts out of the window. To Eddie she says, “Pull over.”

“Why?” Eddie keeps driving ahead, with no intentions of slowing down. 

“To give him a ride,” she says. “We can’t let him walk in the rain.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Eddie,” Bev hisses, “you just told me you were going to try to be nicer.”

“To _you_ and my _friends_ ,” Eddie specifies. 

“ _Eddie_ ,” she repeats, with a groan. “Pull the fuck over.”

“Fine. You owe me.” Eddie does as he’s told and turns the hazard lights on. “He’s a big boy. I think he can get home fine on his own.”

“Be nice,” Bev tells him, and sticks her hand out of the window. “Richie!”

A minute later, Richie comes up to the window and peers inside. “Oh, hey. I thought that was you. What’s up?”

“Get in. Eddie offered to give you a ride,” Bev says, and makes a point of giving Eddie a smug look. She reaches over her seat and, under the correct assumption that Eddie isn’t going to do it for him, unlocks the door for Richie.

“Are you sure he offered?” Richie asks, raising a wary eyebrow at him. “I’m fine with walking.”

“No, he’s definitely okay with taking you,” Bev quips. “You live close, so it isn’t a big deal.”

The second Richie gets in, Eddie turns the radio up to drown out any opportunities for conversation. The short ride to Bev’s house is quiet other than the rain and the new Tool song blaring through the speakers. 

After Bev gets out, Richie climbs his 6-foot tall body over the center console and drops into the front seat, reaching back to pick up Eddie’s CD case. Then, he adjusts the seat to make room for his legs, turns the radio down, and takes a tissue from the holder on the dashboard to wipe his glasses. Miraculously, Eddie manages to bite his tongue, holding back the dozen snarky comments in his head.

“You still listen to good music,” Richie comments, flipping through the case. “I’m surprised at the amount of alternative shit in here, but there’s some good stuff. Bad Brains, Bad Religion, Black Flag… wait, is this in alphabetical order?”

“Where do you live?” Eddie asks, not keen on humoring him.

“Not far. Just keep going this way. I’ll tell you where to turn.” Richie flips through the case, pulls a CD out of the sleeve, and jams it into the player with the grace of a 5-year-old.

“Careful,” Eddie mutters.

Richie turns to him, eyes wide. “Wow, you didn’t even call me stupid. I’m amazed.” 

Despite himself, Eddie smiles. “Don’t get used to it.”

Glassjaw’s Worship and Tribute begins to play and Richie skips to Ape Dos Mil.

“I went and saw Glassjaw a few years ago,” he says. “Bummer they’re not doing anything right now.”

“How was it?” Eddie asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Great. I just felt old as fuck because the crowd was full of teenagers. You ever been in the pit with a 16-year-old? They don’t give a shit about who lives or dies, including themselves.”

Eddie allows himself to laugh, albeit nervously. This is the longest they’ve gone without insulting each other, and he finds him struggling to come up with anything to say.

“We were like that at 16,” Eddie says.

“No, you were standing off to the side in a _safe_ area,” Richie corrects. “The rest of your friends were in the pit.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Eddie relents. During the worst of his ‘don’t fucking touch me’ phase, Eddie couldn’t even go to shows without having a panic attack. Still, he feels the need to defend himself. “I was in there sometimes though.”

“Yeah, sure, Eds,” Richie says, hitting skip on the radio again. Must’ve Run All Day starts playing and Richie taps his fingers on his knee along to the slow drums in the intro. “So, you’re close. Turn left at the next light, then make the first right at the busted chain link fence. I’m two buildings down.”

When Eddie stops in front of Richie’s apartment building, Richie doesn’t get out. He opens up Eddie’s CD case again and says, “I want to borrow one.”

“I don’t even let my friends borrow my shit.”

“Just one,” Richie says, flipping through carelessly. At this rate, half of them will be cracked by the time he gets out of the car. “I’ll give it back.”

“I’m positive that you won’t,” Eddie says, grasping for the CD case.

Richie moves it out of his reach. “We see each other every day at work.”

“And you’ll forget it every single day.” Eddie shudders when Richie begins to slide Deftones’ Adrenaline out of the sleeve. “No way. By the time I get it back, it’ll be scratched beyond repair.”

“God, you really do think I’m stupid, huh? I know where to keep CDs, dude.”

When Eddie reaches for the CD case for the second time, Richie catches Eddie’s wrist. He smiles, like he’s proposing a challenge, then brings Eddie’s knuckles to his lips.

The boldness of it floors him, but the intimacy of it sends a warm, tingling feeling through him, overwhelming any sense of confusion. He smothers every one of his sudden, desires to chase that feeling, and snatches his hand away. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Answer something for me,” Richie says, looking pleased with himself. He closes the CD case and returns it to the backseat. “Why are you so hostile towards me?" 

Eddie tenses, shifting in his seat. "Seriously?" 

"You're rude to me on sight before I even do anything or open my big stupid mouth.” 

“Because you’re… _you_ , Richie,” Eddie explains, irritated that he even has to ask.

“You were always like this, even when we were younger. Before I even- Listen, I don't wanna play the whole 'which came first' game,” Richie says. There’s an uncertain look on his face, and he sighs. “I’ve made mistakes too, I know. I’m-” 

“Yeah, you have.” Eddie looks away, refusing to get tripped up by the way Richie is looking at him. “That's putting it lightly. You’re kind of a shitty person, actually.” 

“I know,” Richie agrees, after a second. “I mean, I don't think I'm that awful, but I get how you think I am. I've done and said a lot of awful shit." 

There’s a long silence, and all the words left unsaid fall between them. Eddie wouldn’t even know where to fucking begin and he isn’t sure if he even wants to try. He turns the car off—it would be just his luck if his battery died here, in front of Richie’s apartment building.

Richie puts his hand on the center console, dangerously close to Eddie’s. “I know you don’t think much of me, but...because of that, sometimes it really feels like you’re angry at yourself for wanting to kiss me.” 

Eddie stares out the windshield, at the fat raindrops falling on the glass. He does his best to ignore the curiosity and the hint of excitement blooming inside him, but his sweaty palms prevail. “And where did you get that idea that I wanted to kiss you?” 

“From you. Just a few minutes ago, when I kissed your hand.” Richie hooks his pinky over Eddie’s. “Tell me if I’m wrong.”

A shiver makes its way up Eddie’s spine. “You mean when I basically screamed and asked you what the fuck you were doing?” 

Richie links their fingers together fully, squeezing Eddie’s shaking hand. “Well, you’re not doing that now.” 

Eddie looks down at their interlaced fingers, his heart racing. “What are you trying to do?” 

"I’m trying to get you to kiss me." Richie lets go, only to lightly trace his fingertips over Eddie’s palm, down to the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist, and back up again.

A quiet sigh slips out and Eddie can’t tell if it’s because he’s embarrassingly touch-starved or if Richie is just that fucking good. Then, he remembers something. “Why are you propositioning me when you have a boyfriend?” 

Richie pauses his movements. “A boyfriend?” 

“The guy,” Eddie says, glancing up at him. “At Bev’s party.” 

An amused grin plays on Richie’s lips and he holds back laughter as he says, “Oh, you mean the guy I made out with for a night and then used in hopes of making you jealous?” 

“That’s gross, Richie.” 

“I know. Kiss me.” 

"I don’t think so." Eddie turns away again, hoping that avoiding Richie's playful gaze will make it easier to gather his thoughts. Never, in all this time of knowing him, has Eddie thought about kissing him. Now that the idea is planted, it’s fighting with all the resentment and bitterness Eddie feels for him. Richie rubs his thumb over Eddie’s racing pulse, patient, knowing, delicate. Three words Eddie never would have used to describe him.

“Just a peck." 

"I said no, now get out of my car or I'll let down my window and start screaming for help." 

"I'm not asking you to do anything you don't already want to do." 

“You-” Eddie pulls his hand away, curling it into a fist. "Don't pretend to know anything about what I want, asshole." 

"Eddie," Richie says, softly. "Prove me wrong.”

Finally, Eddie looks at him, at his damp hair, goofy glasses, and ridiculous nose ring. Through it all, Eddie sees his calm expression and kind blue eyes, with a touch of fear behind the excited sparkle. 

‘ _Just to see_ ,’ he thinks, as he leans over the center console, butterflies in his stomach. 

It’s short, and borderline chaste, but enough for Eddie to learn how soft and warm Richie’s lips are. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t kissed anyone in a while, but maybe...just maybe, it’s the little sigh that escapes Richie’s lips that sends another shiver down Eddie's spine. "Oh, fuck." 

Richie starts to smile, pursing his lips together like a delighted child trying to hold back an outburst.

“Don’t even fucking _think_ about saying anything stupid,” Eddie warns. 

“I wasn’t,” Richie says, now grinning from ear to ear. “Kiss me again.” 

When he leans in, pressing their lips together in another kiss, Richie cups his giant hand behind Eddie’s head and licks the seam of his lips, slipping his tongue into Eddie’s mouth. Then, he quite literally pulls Eddie into his lap, reaches down to recline the seat, and brings him in close.

It’s cramped and clumsy—Eddie’s knee digs into the seat belt buckle, and his foot keeps bumping the gear stick. All things considered, Richie is a great kisser, expertly coaxing Eddie’s mouth open, scraping his teeth over Eddie’s lower lip, dipping his head to kiss along his jaw and the shell of his ear. Eddie cards his fingers through Richie’s damp hair and Richie literally whimpers, bucking his hips up. Richie is hard against the inside of Eddie’s thigh, and Eddie dares to press closer, rolling his hips. He’s hard too, almost painfully so, and Richie’s eager hands, sliding up over his ass and under his shirt are no help.

"You're so fucking hot,” Richie says into their heated kiss.

"So are you, unfortunately,” Eddie responds, moving his hand lower until it finds Richie’s belt.

“Even now you’re talking shit.” Richie presses his thumb to the corner of Eddie’s lips. “Should I put my dick in your mouth?” 

Eddie smirks. “Over my dead body.” 

Richie kisses him, and says against his lips, “What do you want to do?” 

Eddie sits up, taking a breath. He looks around at his car, then out at the dark street. Somewhere in between now and when they started kissing, the rain stopped. “Let’s go to my place?”

It’s a terrible idea. Probably one of the worst he’s ever had. But, he has to do it. The thing about anxiety is that decision-making becomes ten times more difficult. He can argue with himself all day about which outcome would be worse, but he knows he’ll overthink either decision. At least if he does this, he won’t have to wonder if the way he melts into Richie’s touch is a fluke. 

When they step into Eddie’s luxurious studio apartment, he makes Richie take his shoes off. Richie starts to make a stupid joke, but Eddie shuts him up with a brusing kiss. Richie hums into it, snaking an arm around Eddie’s waist, lifting him onto his toes. They’ve gone from 0 to 100, and they’re only two feet from the door.

Richie walks them into the door, puts his hand firmly between Eddie’s legs and whispers in his ear. “I want to suck your dick.”

Eddie hisses at the touch but says, “I don’t want your mouth anywhere near my dick.” 

Richie lowers himself to his knees, peering up at him, palming himself through his jeans. “It’ll shut me up.” He reaches for Eddie’s zipper and stops him, grabbing his wrist. 

“When’s the last time you had an STD test?” 

Richie rolls his eyes. “Real sexy question, Eds.” 

“I’m fucking serious,” Eddie says, averting his eyes from the bulge in Richie’s jeans.

“I could literally just lie to you if I wanted.” 

“Are you that desperate to suck my dick?” 

Without a millisecond of hesitation, Richie answers, “Honestly, yes.”

Eddie wrings Richie’s wrist. “Don’t be stupid. My patience is dwindling.” 

Wincing, Richie tugs his arm away. “Ow, jesus fuck, you’re fucking aggressive. Pent up sexual frustration?” 

“I’m about 30 seconds from kicking you out of my apartment,” Eddie says, and it is absolutely a lie. In some way or another, Richie is helping him get off tonight. 

“I don’t have any sores in my mouth, you freak. Happy?” Richie asks, reaching for Eddie’s zipper again. “Now if I don’t get your dick in my mouth in the next five seconds, I’m going to explode.” 

Eddie would be a sadist to deny him after that. 

When Richie is hollowing his cheeks, swirling his tongue, and taking him all the way to the hilt without a single cough or hiccup, Eddie is thankful for his big mouth. He’s speechless, dizzy, watching Richie scramble to get his own zipper down.

Before Eddie even saw Richie’s dick—meaning ten minutes ago, when they were grinding against each other in Eddie’s passenger’s seat—he knew it was big. But, seeing it in Richie’s huge hand kind of puts in a different perspective. He literally gasps, and Richie hums around Eddie’s dick. It isn’t that Eddie hasn’t seen a big dick before, but the fact that it’s _Richie’s_ and that Richie is in his apartment, is making his head spin. 

Eddie tugs Richie back by his hair. “Will you fuck me?”

He’s chasing a specific touch, he tells himself. The feeling of being held, being consumed, just on the right side of rough so he can remember it, because he doesn’t know when he’ll have it again, if ever.

“I would be honored,” Richie says, getting to his feet.

“Wash your hands,” Eddie tells him, shoving him towards the bathroom.

Richie stumbles, giving Eddie an earnest, “Yes, sir.”

Eddie ignores it, gets down to his boxers, taking lube and a condom out of his bedside drawer. Richie returns, already stepping out of his jeans and moving towards the bed. 

"Alright, my hands are clean. What's next, do you want me to shave my balls?"

“Not on the bed,” Eddie says, positioning himself near his desk.

“Oh, kinky,” Richie chuckles, tugging his shirt over his head.

“I wish that were the case,” Eddie responds, distracted by the sight in front of him.

So, well… Richie is hot. In an unexpected way. Eddie has never had a reason to imagine Richie half naked, but even if he had he wouldn’t have imagined this. A broad chest with a light mottling of hair over the swell of his pecs, wide shoulders, soft belly. And lower, thick legs and a gigantic dick that Eddie will definitely still feel tomorrow morning. 

This is unfair and frankly, pretty fucking risky. Eddie should have asked him to keep his clothes on.

Richie closes the distance between them, takes his glasses off, and puts them on Eddie’s desk. "Weird about people being in your bed. I get it. I mean, I _don't_ but it doesn't surprise me that you would be-" he says, palming Eddie's ass. 

Eddie grabs Richie’s dick through his boxers. "Stop talking and fuck me,” he says, then turns, placing his hands on the desk. 

The way Richie preps him is quick and a little crude, with firm presses and twists of his wet fingers. Eddie is only getting used to the feeling of the two fingers before Richie takes them out, tugs Eddie’s boxers down to his knees and presses into him. At first, Eddie grits his teeth at the intrusion, then relaxes, letting himself get used to the uncomfortable stretch until it fades into a dull, throbbing pleasure.

Richie starts slow, and Eddie feels every inch, hard and thick, pumping into him. When he presses his hips flush to Eddie's ass, Eddie whines. He’s buzzing, his knees weak already. 

Fucking Richie feels like winning and losing at the same time. This is something he chose, and it feels incredible, but Richie has him. Eddie can’t exactly say he’s in control when he’s a millisecond away from begging Richie to fuck him harder. His grip is strong on Eddie’s hips, his thrusts controlled and deep. He slides his hand over Eddie’s back, presses between his shoulder blades, and hitches his hips up. Whimpering at the change in angle, Eddie lowers his head and rests his cheek on the cool wood of the desk. Richie attempts to get his hand between the desk and Eddie’s thighs to touch him, but the angle is off, so he pulls out and turns him around instead. Richie kisses him, giving his dick a few sloppy strokes.

Then, he scoops Eddie up by the thighs and lifts him onto the desk, knocking things over in the process. He shoves Eddie onto his back, opens his legs, and fucks into him with enough force to knock an actual cry out of him. He increases his pace, snapping his hips so hard and fast that Eddie wouldn’t be surprised to see bruises tomorrow. Eddie is sweating, his moans broken and interrupted by Richie fucking into him relentlessly. He wants to tell him it’s perfect, not to stop, and he’s never felt so full before, but can’t get the words out. He can barely think straight, but he also wants to ask Richie to pick up his pens from the floor. It says a lot about him that even while he’s being fucked into oblivion, there’s a distant part of his brain that’s annoyed with Richie for being destructive.

Richie groans, letting out a shaky breath. "God, Eddie you're so fucking- I've always wanted to— fuck, I can't even think right now."

He stops, leaning down for a messy kiss, brings Eddie up with a hand on the back of his head. He hooks one arm under Eddie’s knee, wraps the other around Eddie’s waist and in one surprisingly smooth movement, lifts him and presses his back against the wall. Eddie is intoxicated by it, squeezes his shaking thighs around Richie’s narrow hips and his arms around Richie’s back. Richie braces one hand on the wall and the other on Eddie's hip, his fingers squeezing Eddie’s ass. Eddie closes his eyes, his heart beating so hard he can feel it pounding in his fucking ears. He's falling apart, coming undone on Richie's dick, his throat raw and his chest rattling with each loud, unabashed moan. In this position he can hear Richie too, his quiet groans and labored breaths. With each thrust, Eddie is forced up the wall, his back slick with sweat. Richie has him though, pressing closer.

Richie breathes against Eddie’s lips, saying his name.

And Eddie makes the mistake of opening his eyes. He gets stuck on the way Richie looks, pupils blown, sweat on his brow, mouth open in ecstasy. It’s entracing, and too fucking much. Richie brushes his thumb over Eddie’s cheek and ducks his head for a kiss, but Eddie dodges it, exposing his neck instead. 

Richie mouths and sucks at the sensitive skin, hitching up one of Eddie’s legs and gripping his ass to keep him from slipping. Sensing his impending release, Eddie maneuvers a hand between them, and grabs his dick. Richie fucks him hard and deep, sending a ripple of pleasure down to his toes. He's shaking, clenching around Richie as heat coils in his belly and his own dick leaks in his hand. When Richie says his name again, he comes hard, painting thick stripes over his chest. Richie keeps fucking him, slowing the movement of his hips to a shallow thrust before coming with a string of half comprehensible curse words.

Still holding Eddie up, he looks down at the mess on Eddie’s chest, dips his fingers in it and puts them in his mouth.

"Ew," Eddie says, with no heat behind it. “Did you see that in porn? I’m not impressed.”

Richie just grins at him and puts him on his feet.

After Eddie cleans himself off, he starts getting dressed, coming down slowly from his high. Across the room, still near the desk, Richie is halfway dressed and still grinning.

Eddie expected to feel the things he does now, but he didn’t expect them to flood him all at once. Shame, for fucking Richie Tozier. Guilt, for the way Richie is looking at him. Fear, for what might happen next. Above everything else, there's longing for Richie to hold him. That is what scares the shit out of him the most.

"You have to go,” he chokes out. “Like, right now.”

Richie’s smile falls and Eddie feels a pang of regret. "What?" 

"Get out," he says. “Get out of my apartment.”

Eddie shuts himself into the bathroom before Richie even gets his shoes on.

He strips down and looks at himself in the mirror, at the big purple hickey on his neck. 

It’s hard to look at yourself in the mirror after you’ve spent your whole childhood and adolescence being a victim, but it’s even harder to look at yourself after things like this. Making mistakes like these are a very particular kind of self harm. But, at least, it’s something he chose. 

_'This is something I did to myself, now I can move on. Now I can be better,_ ’ he thinks, as he steps into the shower. 

He turns the hot water on, letting it burn, and touches himself to the mental image of Richie staring into his eyes.

///

Eddie has taken his fair share of ‘mental health days.’ Being misdiagnosed several times, hospitalized twice, changing meds more times than he can count, and deciding that therapy wasn’t for him, has spawned a variety of coping mechanisms and ‘self-soothing activities.' Yesterday, instead of being stuck in bed and drinking himself into a comfortably numb state, he spent his time re-organizing his books, doing push-ups, and cycling between crying and sleeping through the afternoon. There are probably better ways to deal with stress and debilitating anxiety, but he’ll take what he can get. The lower he lets himself get and the longer he stays there, the harder it is to pick himself back up. 

Now that he's back at work, for a double shift no less, he's running on empty. Using every ounce of your energy to smother guilt and shame tends to be exhausting.

After the lunch shift, he sits at the bar and picks over a salad. He's sick to his stomach, thinking about having to face Richie tonight. In a perfect world, both of them would pretend nothing ever happened and they’d carry on talking shit and avoiding each other the way they were before. Eddie would take resentment and annoyance over the queasiness and fear rising up his throat. 

“Hey.”

The only thing that keeps Eddie from running for the hills the moment Richie sits next to him is shock. After taking a minute to process that this is real and not just a surreal dream, he manages to get some words out.

“Um, hey.”

Richie unwraps a set of utensils and throws the napkin aside, digging into what looks like a bowl of meatballs and melted cheese. He notices Eddie’s sad tupperware of salad and frowns. “You brought food from home?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He picks up his fork, just to have something to do with his hands.

“That is the weirdest fucking thing I’ve seen.” Richie laughs, but it’s tense and obviously fake. “You work in a restaurant.” 

“I don’t eat the food here,” Eddie explains, looking ahead at the bar sink.

“You don’t, or you won’t?” 

“I never have.” 

“It’s free." 

“Yeah,” Eddie scoffs, “and so are the diabetes and high blood pressure that comes with it.” 

“It’s _free_ ,” Richie repeats, and Eddie can hear the smile in his voice. 

"Doesn't mean it's good."

Richie holds a forkful of meat and cheese in front of Eddie’s face. "It is good. Try it." 

When Eddie finally looks at his face, some of the tension between them dissipates. His smile is subdued, almost timid. 

“Absolutely fucking not.” 

Richie laughs and puts the fork down. “You’re one of those health nuts, aren’t you?” 

“It’s not completely by choice. Growing up with a mom like mine sort of leaves a mark on you.” 

It's a touchy topic, one he usually reserves for those rare moments he lets himself wallow in self-pity. Even before she died, it was weird talking about her. It's even weirder bringing her up now, to Richie of all people.

“Hey, I heard about your mom," Richie says, his tone serious. "That's a bummer. I mean- I’m sorry for your loss." 

"It's fine." Eddie waves him off. "I'm better off now, trust me. Blame good old Catholic guilt for bringing me back home long enough for her to gaslight me one more time before she croaked." 

“Did your mom know about you being gay?” Richie asks. 

“Definitely not. I never intended on telling her. It’s kind of a relief that she died before she found out,” Eddie says, fully aware how fucked up it sounds. “It’s been the least stressful outcome of all possible outcomes."

“My parents always knew. Maybe even before I did. I think their one hope was that I’d bring home a nice church boy or something.” Richie chuckles, reaching over the bar top to grab a glass, then uses the soda gun to fill it with ginger ale. “Too bad that was never my type.” 

“I can’t imagine that it is,” Eddie mumbles, just for the sake of saying something.

Richie goes quiet, taking a drink from his glass. "So, I was thinking about the other night…”

For a few minutes, Eddie actually let himself believe he was off the hook. The queasiness returns with a vengeance, this time along with sweaty palms. “Yeah?”

“I had always wondered what it would be like if we had sex,” Richie says, bringing his fork to his mouth. He takes a bite and looks ahead, at the shelf of alcohol behind the bar. “Couldn't have thought any of that up." 

"You regularly thought about us having sex?" 

“Yeah.” Richie glances at Eddie and looks away quickly, his face going red. "I kind of well...had a crush on you in high school…"

The whole fucking conversation has felt like a fever dream, but this just throws him for a complete loop. How anyone—especially _Richie_ , who’s full time job was being a shithead—could have a crush on twinky germaphobe teenage Eddie is beyond him. 

"A crush...on _me_?" 

"Yeah, I’ve always thought you were smart and funny. You’ve always been uptight too, but at least you had a better sense of humor then,” Richie looks at Eddie and then away again, scraping his fork around his bowl. “Then, everything got weird and you were just straight up mean to me. But did that stop me? Nope. And, I guess I haven't changed much have I?" 

The rush the compliment gives him nearly drowns out how nerve-wracking the conversation is. “I stopped listening after smart and funny,” 

“Did I leave out self-centered?” Richie smirks. “You’re that too.”

"I know I was mean,” Eddie admits, noticing the surprised quirk of Richie’s eyebrows. “You called me a freak everyday and made fun of me for having asthma, among other things. Did you expect me to be nice?" 

“No, but you didn’t have to look at me like I was some kind of fucking bridge troll every time I came around.” 

“You were,” Eddie says, partially teasing. “And still are, kind of.” 

Richie grins, turning in his seat to face Eddie fully. “You weren’t saying that when I was fucking you senseless.” 

Unable to keep himself from smiling, Eddie retorts, “And you didn’t have any complaints about me when my dick was in your mouth either.” 

“Right, because my mouth was occupied.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, his face going warm.

“I like when you smile at me,” Richie says, hushed. Eddie goes even warmer, buzzing in the same way he did when Richie first touched him.

Then, in one of the worst cases of emotional whiplash he’s ever felt, the comfortable buzz quickly switches to sharp panic when Richie leans in to kiss him. 

Eddie recoils and whips his head around at the empty dining room. “Um, what the fuck are you doing?” 

Richie shrinks back, his expression trained to something hard. “Alright, I guess you’re still a stuck up bitch.” There’s a bite to his words, nothing like the casual mocking or flippant insults that Eddie is used to. Something about this stings more than usual.

Stumbling a little over his words, Eddie says, “Sure, okay, and you’re still a loser.” 

Richie is already out of his seat, not meeting his eyes. “Right, okay. Whatever.” When he walks away, Eddie doesn’t follow.

-

At sometime around 11, Eddie’s phone rings. He’s in bed, trying to force himself to sleep at least an hour or two.

He reaches over in the dark and picks up his phone, flipping it open when he sees Bev’s name.

“What’s up?”

"You hooked up with Richie.”

Not a question, or speculation. Somehow, she knows.

Eddie sighs and sits up, turning on the light. He wasn’t going to get to sleep tonight anyway. “Who told you that?”

“Richie did,” she says, exasperated. “Like, five minutes ago. What the fuck, Eddie? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“It’s the biggest deal!” Bev says. “I’ve watched you turn down like a dozen guys in the past few months alone because they ‘weren’t good enough for you’ but then you sleep with _Richie_?" 

“It was a mistake,” Eddie tries, hoping she’ll let it slide.

“A mistake, like how? Like, were you drunk?”

Eddie gets up and goes to the kitchen, suddenly craving a drink. “I was sober. We both were. It was the night you forced me to give him a ride home.”

“Eddie, that was _two nights ago_. You had a whole two nights to tell me and you didn’t. I’m offended.”

“I can tell,” Eddie drones. He pours vodka into a glass and takes a sip. “Obviously I wasn’t planning on telling anyone, so can you keep this to yourself?”

“Of course,” she says, seeming to calm down a little. “I’m still mad at you for not telling me as soon as it happened. I can’t believe you’re fucking around with Richie Tozier.”

“We’re not fucking around.” Eddie grimaces at the thought. “I don’t just fuck around, you know that.”

“Oh, so you like him then?”

“No.”

“That no sounded suspiciously like a yes.”

“It’s a no. A very firm no.” Eddie pauses and finishes the rest of his drink in one go. “I don’t like him in that way, but I guess I _can_ tolerate him in small doses. Hooking up was honestly just a moment of weakness, as asinine as that sounds. It’s...stupid and complicated.”

“Complicated,” Bev echoes. “Why complicated?”

“Because, I think he likes _me_ in that way,” Eddie takes a deep breath and lets it out with an exaggerated huff. “So, I guess I... I feel bad?”

Bev hums, considering Eddie’s response. “Why don't you give him a chance?”

“I can list like 50 off the top of my head. The first one being that I don’t have any romantic feelings for him.”

“Well, fair enough,” Bev says. “At least tell me how the sex was. I want details. Is he good in bed?" 

Eddie leaves the kitchen and steps into the bathroom. "Do you actually wanna hear details about your friends having sex?" 

"Duh." 

"It was okay," he lies, simply for the sake of keeping some of his dignity. If he tells her how amazing it was and how he’s probably gonna jerk off to the memory forever, he'll never hear the end of it.

"You're a terrible liar, even over the phone. C'mon, gimme the juicy details." 

"He is...enthusiastic," Eddie says, looking at the fading hickey on his neck. "That's all I'll say." 

"You're no fun." 

“I’ve heard.” Eddie opens his medicine cabinet and looks at the neat row of pills. Vitamins, supplements, and medications that he has collected over the years. There’s a bottle of melatonin that he hasn’t touched in months and that he definitely shouldn’t take after drinking, but he considers it for a second. He closes the medicine cabinet and holds the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can wash his sweaty hands. "Hey, uh, so...what did Richie say when you talked to him?"

"Not much. Just that you were bossy and cold, which we both know has been a part of your personality since puberty." Bev says it easily, as if it doesn’t make Eddie’s heart drop into his fucking stomach.

“Right,” Eddie says, then fakes a yawn. “I’m gonna go to bed. I’ll see you at work.”

He turns off the light and climbs back into bed, wide awake and lonelier than he’s ever been.

///

On slow nights at the restaurant, everything is ten times more painful and mind-numbing. 

It’s an hour before closing time and Eddie is at the host station, swapping the inserts in all of the lunch menus. He and Richie are the only servers on the floor and there’s a single party of two left—Richie gave them their check two hours ago, but they’re still cuddled up in the booth with no intentions of leaving. 

Eddie’s only saving grace tonight is Sara, the host. She’s new and achingly sweet, and she’s been the middleman between Eddie and Richie all night. As she’s leaving, Eddie starts sinking into a sense of dread knowing that it’ll just be him and Richie for another hour.

“You two have fun together,” she says, at the door. “Now that I'm leaving you can flirt all you want."

Eddie frowns at her. "Excuse me?"

“Well, a little birdie told me that you guys have hooked up.” 

“God, no,” he says, all too quickly. He forces out a high-pitched, panicked laugh and clears his throat. “Like I would ever fuck Trashmouth? You’d have to be pretty desperate to settle for him. I don’t know who told you that, but they should check their facts before spreading rumors."

Sara goes beet red and begins to apologize, but Eddie stops her. 

“It’s fine,” he rushes out. “Just-...it’s not true.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, pushing the door open. “Have a good night anyway.”

“Goodnight,” he mumbles. The second the door shuts behind her, Eddie drops the stack of papers on the counter. He leaves the station, itching with anger, and spots Richie standing in the threshold between the lobby and side A, holding a tray of salt and pepper shakers.

“Please tell me you’re not telling everyone at work that we had sex.” 

“The only person I told was Bev,” Richie says, his tone clipped. He walks away, not waiting for Eddie’s reply.

Eddie follows him to the prep station, right on his heels. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure,” Richie says, keeping his back turned. He drops the tray on the counter and a few shakers fall to the floor. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re desperate and settling for me.” 

Guilt and regret twists at Eddie’s stomach. “Richie…”

“Don’t-” Richie turns, his expression harsh and his voice rigid. “So, what, I'm just an embarrassing secret to you?” 

“Don’t do that,” Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Do _what_?” Richie asks, mirroring Eddie. “Call you out?” 

"Call me out for what?” Eddie questions, trying to keep his voice cool and level. “It _was_ desperate of me to sleep with you. I don't need everyone at work knowing it." 

Richie clenches his jaw, then turns away again to begin refilling the salt and pepper shakers. "I don't want you to tell the whole fucking world, I just want you to not act like you were so disgusted by it." 

Eddie moves to Richie’s side, lowering his voice. "I kicked you out after we had sex. What did you think that was?" 

Richie steps away, keeping his eyes on his task. "Intimacy issues. Panic. Your weird, fucked up control issues. I never expected you to be into cuddling and shit anyway, so it’s not like I was surprised. It's just shitty that you're acting as though it was the worst thing ever." 

"Are you surprised that I feel weird about it?” Eddie asks. He pushes forward, knowing he can’t backpedal now. “Considering you wore me down until I said yes. There's a word for that, Richie." 

"Wow,” Richie whistles and moves the tray aside. He turns to Eddie now, giving him an intense, unwavering stare. “It's amazing how you can twist things in your head to fit your version of the story. Yeah, I begged you to kiss me, and I was embarrassingly desperate to suck you off, but you asked _me_ to fuck _you_. Now you're not only telling people we didn't, you're implying it was repulsive to you. Makes me feel amazing, really. So, thanks."

“Listen, you’re not my boyfriend and you’ll never be my boyfriend,” Eddie spits out. There’s another pang of guilt when he notices the slight change in Richie’s expression, but thankfully his voice doesn’t give him away. “Does it really matter if I don’t want people knowing we had sex? We're never going to do it again, so does it matter that I don't have the most positive feelings about it?” 

“You’re right,” Richie says, in an overly casual tone. He attempts to twist his lips into a smile. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” 

For the rest of the night, Richie doesn’t even look at him. 

It doesn’t feel as good as Eddie hoped.

-

On Eddie’s very next lunch shift, he waits until there’s a lull between customers before pulling Bev into the walk-in freezer with him. He’s been fuming for so long that the cold is a relief. 

“Why are you telling people that I hooked up with Richie? You told me you wouldn’t.” 

“I told one person,” she says, then holds up her hands in defense. “To be fair, they asked. Like, they sensed it or something. It was the weirdest thing. They asked me and I didn’t say yes or no, and obviously that means yes.” 

“All it takes is one person,” Eddie groans. “Now everyone at work knows.”

“It’s fine, Eddie.” Bev shrugs, as if saying it’s fine means anything at all. “It’s not the end of the world.” 

“It might as well be,” Eddie admits, knowing it’s pathetic. If he could turn off catastrophic thinking like a light switch, he’d do it in a heartbeat. “I made a mistake and fucked the last guy I ever thought I would fuck, and then the person who I thought was my best friend couldn’t keep my secret for more than a week.” 

Bev puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. "Babe, no offense, but you need to take a fucking chill pill." 

"Don’t do that,” Eddie brushes her off and steps out of her reach. It’s hard to stay angry at her, but this is nearly unforgivable. “Everyone keeps telling me to _relax_ and to _chill_. If it was easy I would fucking do it, because apparently I'm too much for everyone around me. Apparently, my opinions about situations that directly involve me don’t matter." 

"Hey, that's not what I said, Eddie. Don't twist my words." 

"Then what are you saying?" 

"I'm saying…and I mean this in the nicest way possible, that you need to loosen up and let your walls down a little.” Bev softens her voice and adds, “And maybe, like…think about the way you treat people." 

Eddie immediately goes on the defense, his default mode. “What do you mean?”

“I talked to Richie. He likes you, and you treat him like shit for no reason.” Bev holds up her hand to stop Eddie from cutting in. “Ah, ah, don’t even start. I know what you’re going to say. No, he’s not perfect, but no one is. Even if you don’t like him the way he likes you, you can’t treat him like dirt. Be better, dude.”

“Bev-”

Bev puts her foot down, both metaphorically and literally. “Be better,” she repeats, and steps past Eddie to leave the freezer. 

///

If Eddie believed in divine intervention, or signs from a higher power, or anything fucking stupid like that, he would think it’s a sign that he passes Richie on the way home. They haven’t spoken in a week and in some ways, it’s a blessing. Richie’s silent treatment is giving Eddie an opportunity to move on and forget about this whole thing, which is the one thing he thought he wanted more than anything else. Yet, here he is, spending the seventh day in a row ruminating on how he can claw the guilt out of his chest and hating that every answer points to Richie.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he pulls over and steps out into the rain. Richie sees him and keeps walking, not even a hitch in his stride.

"Do you need a ride?" Eddie asks anyway, standing at the hood of the car.

Richie slows down, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don't _need_ anything from you."

"Hey c'mon, just get in,” Eddie says, biting back a rude comment. It’s cold and wet, and he doesn’t want to stand out here all night begging. “It's raining pretty hard."

Richie stops and looks him over. “Since when do you have a heart?” 

“Okay, that’s fine dude. You can walk if that’s what you prefer.” Eddie circles back around to the driver’s seat and gets in, but doesn’t even start the car.

Moments later, Richie sticks his head in the window. “You sure you’re not too embarrassed to be seen with me outside of work?” 

"Are you getting in or not?” Eddie asks. “I'm leaving in like 10 seconds regardless."

Richie opens the door and gets in without a word.

Eddie starts the car and turns the radio on. 

Richie turns the volume down. "Headache," he mutters.

"I have tylenol in the glovebox,” Eddie says.

"Very on-brand for you,” Richie drones, but doesn’t take the offer.

Eddie takes a deep breath. "I talked to Bev."

"Okay," Richie mumbles.

The silence makes everything heavier. His palms sweat on the steering wheel and his mouth goes dry.

"Alright I know you don't want to talk to me,” Eddie starts, choosing his words carefully. He stares ahead at the road as he speaks, keeping his tone steady. “But, I'm gonna come right out and say it...there's a lot of stuff we need to discuss. About us." 

"No shit,” Richie scoffs. “That's so perceptive of you, Eddie."

Eddie opens his mouth to reply but finds himself lost. His thoughts are scrambled and he’s tense, wound up tight by the curt way Richie is talking to him. There are too many things to say and unpack, but if Eddie can’t even unpack past annoyance then it’s useless.

"You can start any time. The ball is in your court."

“Jesus, don’t do that,” Eddie snaps. "You being obnoxious doesn't fucking help Richie. It's half the reason why we're in this mess to begin with."

"I do want to talk to you. You don't really want to talk to me though." Richie exhales and looks away, out of the window. "Even if I had the words to explain why I've been so obnoxious and shitty, I don’t think you’d let yourself accept it. Because then, you’d have to be nice to me. But you can’t ever be _too_ nice to me because then you'd be forced to actually face your real issue with me. And once that’s out in the open, you’d have to suck it up and apologize for treating me like shit...You won’t do that and I don’t think you ever will. Instead you’ll just double down and make shit up like you always do, because god forbid you admit your mistakes.”

“I-” Eddie grips the steering wheel, his hands trembling as he stops in front of Richie’s apartment building. 

“You don’t care anyway,” Richie continues. “You don’t actually give a shit about me or my feelings or what I've been through. And apparently, I lack respect for myself because I still want to be around you.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, taking a deep breath to fight the tightness in his chest. “I-”

Richie doesn’t look at him. The hurt is evident in his voice, breaking through the words. “Sometimes I wish you’d just tell me to fuck off and die so I can just get over you and move on with my fucking life…but, you know, even then I probably wouldn’t.” 

Eddie bites down on his lip to distract from the pain in his chest. Even if he could get words out, he wouldn’t know what to say.

"Anyway, you really suck… so, goodnight." Richie gets out of the car and slams the door behind him.

Once he’s alone, Eddie rests his head on the steering wheel and squeezes his eyes shut. In between his shallow, shaky breaths, he counts backwards from ten. _‘I chose this,’_ he thinks. ‘ _I did this to myself_.’

///

When Eddie leaves work with Bev on Saturday night, it’s late. It’s been raining for hours, with no signs of letting up. Right outside the front door, Richie is standing under the awning with a cigarette between his fingers, watching the sky. 

For days, Eddie has been weighed down by the overbearing, relentless chains of guilt and the baggage he's been carrying for an entire decade. Every time he looks at Richie, he feels so heavy he could sink through the floor.

Bev nudges Eddie with her elbow and whispers, “Ask him if he needs a ride.”

Eddie clears his throat. “Do you need a ride?”

Richie takes a pull from his cigarette and looks back up at the sky, before putting the cigarette out and placing it back in the pack. “Sure.”

It’s a mad dash through the parking lot to get to the car without getting soaked, and it isn’t until they’re safe inside that Eddie notices that Bev is in the backseat. She’s stretched out, groaning about her feet and smirking at Eddie in the rearview mirror. Eddie narrows his eyes at her and glances over at Richie in the passenger’s seat. He’s unsettlingly quiet, picking his nails.

The ride to Bev’s house is quiet and the tension is thick enough to feel claustrophobic. Bev tries making conversation, and it only makes things more awkward. Then, before she gets out, she squeezes both their shoulders and says, “By the way, the road is probably flooded ahead, so you should take the long way around.”

Eddie drives through the neighborhood, taking it slow through the water pooling at the end of each street, and pulls out onto the next main street only to find it just as flooded as the side streets. With nowhere to go, he pulls into an empty grocery store parking lot and turns the car off. 

If this is a _sign_ , he fully intends on taking advantage of it. The only way he can move on is by letting go, and the only way to let go is to put himself through this punishment.

“Looks like we're stuck until it stops raining."

"Great." Richie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. After a moment of silence, he takes off his seat belt and grabs the door handle. "Actually, I'll walk."

“Can we talk?” Eddie asks, reaching for his arm. “For real this time.”

Richie shakes him off. “Why, because Bev made you?”

“No, because I want to.”

“Fine. Let’s talk,” Richie says, folding his hands in his lap. “What’s your _real_ problem with me?"

"You-" Eddie starts, and as he realizes this might require him to be way more vulnerable than he’s comfortable with, he shuts his mouth.

"I don’t want to hear some bullshit excuse about me being _me_ or how I teased you in high school.” Richie is blunt, wasting no time on sarcasm or niceties. “You and I both know there’s more to it than that.”

"You don't think the way you treated me in high school is a valid enough reason for me not to like you?" As Eddie speaks, his frustration grows—it’s an easy place to go, easier than dejection and pain. "I should be asking what your real problem with _me_ was. You, of all people, had some nerve terrorizing me. And you never-” 

Richie frowns, turning to look at him. “Me, of all people?” 

“A loser, Richie," Eddie groans. "You know what I mean-” 

“You were too!" Richie shouts, just as exasperated. "You were a bigger loser than me! Not only were you a loser, you were fucking snobby and rude and you haven’t changed. But you can't sit here and act as if I was the worst of your problems. I never _terrorized_ you-” 

“It was pretty fucking close-” 

“It wasn't! I’m not perfect, but I wasn't like Henry Bowers-" 

"So fucking what?" Eddie says, already trembling with nerves. He’s been holding this in for so long, it terrifies him to think of how he’ll change once he doesn’t have to carry it anymore. "You think that's something to applaud? You stood by and did _nothing_ when Bowers physically assaulted me on a near daily basis and rubbed salt in the wound by calling me a freak or a spaz an hour later. We were friends at one point. Do you remember that? Then suddenly overnight, your main priority was getting high and helping to make my life a living hell. You fucking...you abandoned me.”

“That’s what this is about?" Richie’s tone softens, but his expression remains harsh. "Me leaving?”

Eddie deflates in his seat, reeling at his own admission. He crosses his arms, a shoddy attempt to guard himself. “It really fucking hurt, Richie.” 

Everyone in their group of friends knew that Richie rounded out the group. It was weird for everyone when he left, but Eddie didn't realize how much more vulnerable he would feel without Richie's loud mouth and stupid jokes to act as a buffer. It wasn't a foolproof method, but it took the focus off of Eddie and sometimes that was all he needed. Without Richie, Eddie used what he had left. His strong need for control, budding perfectionism, and what little wit he had. If that manifested into a strong, visceral resentment for Richie, then Richie is the one to blame for leaving in the first place.

“You can’t hold that against me.” Richie shakes his head, his voice even quieter. "That’s not fair. I had shit to deal with-”

As quickly as Eddie unraveled, he's wound up again. “So did I! It’s no excuse for-”

“I was fucking scared, Eddie! Fuck!" Richie slams his fist on the dashboard and drags a rough hand over his face. He forces the next words out, twisted with remorse. "I should have been there for you but, holy fuck, I would shit myself if Bowers even _looked_ at me. And you, god, Eddie I was so intimidated by you. I didn’t know how to talk to you anymore, I didn’t know how to just exist around you, I barely knew how to exist alone and I still don’t."

Eddie starts to speak, but Richie stops him. He takes a deep, unsteady breath and continues.

"Between getting high, having a pathetic crush on you, and all the other shit I had to deal with, I was just trying to survive. I was just trying to get through each week without killing myself. Without you guys, without _you_ , Eddie I fucking lost it, I wasn't as brave and I admit that. I did what I could to get by and I hate myself for being so fucking impulsive and scared. I know I fucked things up with you. I was a stupid kid, I know that and I think about it every fucking day. I think about you every day-” 

“You could have told me this-” Eddie cuts himself off, gritting his teeth at the way his heart beats at the base of his throat. He's sweating, his head spinning, dizzy because this is the most out of control he has felt in a long time. He can’t fucking deal with this. He _won’t_ deal with this. He's already said too much, cracking his fucking chest open and exposing himself for someone to pick through his most vulnerable feelings and secret desires. This isn't going to work and he was stupid to even try. His only option is to do what he does best—he smothers all his feelings other than anger and puts up a wall. “You know what? It’s whatever. Fuck it, none of this matters anyway. I'm gonna be out of this town soon and this will just be another mistake I have to forget about.”

“Fine, whatever,” Richie sighs, defeated. He pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Fuck everything I just said. Once again, my feelings don’t matter.”

Eddie takes the cigarettes out of his hand and puts them on the dashboard. “Don’t do that.”

Richie lifts his glasses and rubs his eyes with the base of his palms. “Why do you always think you can dictate what I can do?”

“I don’t,” Eddie hisses. “I just want to move past all of this.”

“By doing what? I know you don’t want to be my boyfriend and I’m not stupid enough to believe we’ll ever be friends,” Richie says, tersely. “One second you’re telling me I abandoned you and the next second, you’re calling me a fucking mistake. You don’t actually want to amend anything. You just want to carry on convincing yourself that you’re better than me.”

"Oh, fuck off,” Eddie says, flippant because it’s the only way to hide. “I _know_ I'm better than you. I’m better than all of this shit.”

"Yeah? If you're so much better, why are you here, working at the same place I am?” Richie asks coolly. In one blow, he knocks down the wall Eddie built. “If I’m such a loser and a useless shit for brains, why did you sleep with me?” 

Eddie ignores the pain in his chest and holds tight to his shield, unwilling to let himself be exposed any more. “Fuck you. Don’t even-” 

“You knew sleeping with me would be the worst thing you could do to maintain your perfect image, but you still did it. You let Trashmouth, the townie faggot, fuck you.” Richie looks Eddie squarely in the eyes, brazen, holding nothing back. "But you know what’s worse for you? You fucking loved it and you hate that. You _knew_ you would love it before we even did it, and you hate that even more." 

“Right.” Eddie looks away and scoffs, forcing his voice into something calm, uncaring. "You don't know shit." 

"You would do it again but you have to have control. It wouldn't be the same if you did it twice, right? How can you build yourself up from rock bottom if you stay there?"

Eddie is shaking for a different reason now, anger coursing through him like fire. "Shut the fuck up-" 

Richie cuts him off, unfazed. "Your issue with me is mostly just an issue you have with yourself." 

And it’s like he just grabbed Eddie by the ribs and cracked him open.

"Get out. Get the fuck out of my car." It’s still raining, sheeting down even harder than it was earlier. Eddie doesn’t care, he wants Richie out and never wants to see him again.

“You know I'm right,” Richie says, and settles defiantly into his seat.

Eddie gets out of the car, swallowing his wounded pride. This is what he gets for going with his gut and not thinking things through. If he can help it, he’ll never do this again. He’s done with weak people and the way they hold him back. As he pulls the passenger’s door open and drags Richie out of the car, he tells himself over and over: _Never again, never again._

Through the hard rain, he shouts, "I fucking hate you!" 

Richie doesn’t fight it, he steps out of the car and closes the door. "You hate yourself more than you hate me." He's calm, confident in his accusation, and that’s what infuriates Eddie the most.

“How fucking dare you? You don’t know shit about me, so don’t pretend you do.” Eddie steps forwards and pushes him as hard as he can, willing him to go away and stay away.

"Don't," Richie tells him, a half-hearted warning.

"Or what?" Eddie asks, his vision blurred with rage.

“Alright, Eddie Spaghetti,” he says, in his familiar mocking tone. “I’m not gonna fight you, so what do you want me to do?”

"Don't fucking call me that!" Eddie shouts, seeing red. “You know what I want you to do? I want you to kill yourself, you piece of shit. I mean that. I really fucking mean that. Everyone would be better off if you just stopped being a pussy, took one too many pills and ended your useless fucking life.” 

Richie’s expression goes blank, unreadable. He takes a minute before speaking, pushing the wet hair off his forehead. “How many times have you said that to yourself in the mirror?” 

Brimming with hostility and with the sharp blade of truth stuck deep in his chest, he can’t think. His thoughts are clouded with memories of crying himself to sleep and praying he wouldn’t wake up in the morning. Eddie has nothing left but base instincts. He slaps Richie hard across the face, the sting crawling up his arm. Richie is quick to respond, grabbing Eddie by both wrists. He forces Eddie up against the car and holds him there, folding his arms at his chest. 

“Fuck you.” Eddie says, and spits at him. It might not have the same affect in the rain, but it’s all he can do.

Richie wipes his glasses on his wet sleeve, holding Eddie’s wrists tight with one hand. "Did I hit a nerve?" 

"Fuck you,” Eddie repeats, his heart racing. “I'm better than this lowlife shit. Let go of me." 

Richie doesn’t let go, instead he boxes Eddie in more, looking down at him. His voice is low, fierce. "You're so afraid of being someone like me but you already are. Don’t you realize that we’re basically the same fucking person? That you’re just as fucked up, self hating, and scared as I am?” There’s not a trace of amusement in his eyes as he goes on, his words biting at Eddie’s most delicate insecurities. “You’re just better at dealing with it. Or, are you? How’s that anxiety disorder holding up, huh? Still count to ten when you’re upset? Still freak out whenever anything scares you even a little? Still hide in the bathroom to cry? Still use your issues as an excuse to be a bitch? Fuck you." 

Suddenly, Eddie is 16 again, young and small, fighting the tears in his eyes. “Let me go. Just leave me alone. I’m done, I promise-” 

"You’re gonna cry now? You’re gonna use the last weapon you have against me? After the way you treated me, the way you talk to me, and look down on me, just because I made mistakes in high school and then fed off your fucked up, negative energy? Fuck you.” Raindrops roll down his face, his furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, and upper lip curling in disgust. “You really are a piece of work. Someone is finally honest with you, and you cry. Once again, you’re the victim, right? I feel bad for you, really. But not because you're crying now but because you're just a really fucking sad person, hanging on to some shit from ten years ago." 

If Eddie could speak, he’d tell Richie that he still feels that pain as vividly today as he did ten years ago. It doesn’t matter that they’re adults, that he’s put every ounce of his energy into moving on and being perfect, building walls and holding on to resentment as if it could distract from his fear, pain, and shame. It still hurts.

“The worst part-” Richie’s voice breaks and he grits his teeth, “The worst part is that I fell for you again anyway. That’s how I know something is wrong with me…I can’t fucking take it. Being in love with you makes me want to shoot myself in the fucking head." 

Eddie's heart drops and it takes everything in him to hold back his sobs. He chokes on his inhale and clenches his jaw, steeling himself. “Are you done?” 

Richie lets Eddie go, and Eddie doesn’t miss the tears in his eyes behind his glasses. “Yeah, I’m fucking done with you.” 

The moment Eddie gets his trembling fingers to start the car, he peels out of the parking lot, his scar skidding in the rain. He makes it out of the lot and halfway down the street before he stops again, shaking and crying so hard he can’t see. The pain is heavier than guilt, wrapping around him, seeping through his ribs to cover his lungs and suffocate him from the inside out.

Eddie closes his eyes, just trying to get one full breath out.

When he opens his eyes again, the rain has stopped. 

Richie’s cigarettes are still on the dashboard. Eddie picks them up and opens the pack, numb as he reaches for the car’s lighter and brings Richie’s half finished cigarette to his lips.

///

When Eddie was little, before he even realized what he was doing, he would spend days at time in a zoned out state. He would dip in and out of reality, only emerging when it was safe to do so. This involuntary autopilot setting became the best way to protect himself from the outside world and the effect it has on his fragile psyche. It’s a welcome numbness, completely blanketing and smothering any thought or feeling other than his most basic needs.

At work, he goes through the motions, thankful for the constant distractions. Plastering on smiles, juggling hot plates, cashing out at the end of the night. At home, he’ll take a shower, reheat dinner, and lie in bed alone. The days bleed together, a string of sleepless nights and nauseating emptiness.

_‘This is what I wanted,’_ he tells himself, every time his shield cracks and he feels himself start to cry. _‘I chose this. I did this to myself. I'll be over this soon.’_

After days of everything being fuzzy around the edges, he finds clarity again. It’s sudden, triggered by the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, and comes in the form of a wave of emotion that nearly drowns him. Willing his tears to stay away for just a few more seconds, he takes off his apron and retreats to the bathroom.

It's jarring, to say the least, that he finds Richie in one of the stalls, sitting on the edge of the toilet with his head in his hands. He lets out a quiet gasp at the sight, and Richie lifts his head.

They look at each other for a moment, standing in the thick of disquieting tension, waiting for the other to break the silence.

Richie speaks up first, his words slurred. “Don’t talk to me."

Eddie studies him a little closer, noticing his dilated pupils and slumped shoulders. "What did you do? Did you-"

“I’m fine,” Richie slurs, stumbling to his feet. “Mind your fucking business,” 

“I won’t tell anyone,” Eddie says, his voice hushed. “I promise.”

“I’m going home anyway.” Richie attempts to leave the stall, but Eddie blocks him.

“I can call you a cab,” he offers, noticing the way Richie is swaying.

Richie frowns. "I don't need your fucking help." 

“It’s not-” Eddie starts, swallowing the dryness in his throat. “You shouldn’t walk home like this.”

“I’m fine,” Richie repeats, and moves to push past him.

Eddie steps forward into the stall with him. “Please, just let me help you.”

“Listen,” Richie says, then grabs Eddie by the collar and shoves him into the corner of the stall, hard enough to hit the back of his head. “I just asked you to mind your fucking business.” 

Stunned, Eddie manages to choke out, “I’m just trying to-”

Richie shoves him again, squeezing Eddie’s bicep tight with his other hand. “I didn’t fucking ask for you help, did I?”

"You're hurting me," Eddie says, hating the vacant look in Richie’s eyes. It’s as if he’s looking through Eddie, not fully present.

“I could beat the shit out of you, you fucking freak.” Richie smirks and steps closer, letting go of Eddie’s shirt to grip his jaw. “I wouldn’t wanna ruin this pretty face though.” 

"You're hurting me, Richie," Eddie repeats, his heart racing as Richie leans in closer. He turns his head, trying to pry Richie’s hands off of him. “No-”

Richie kisses him hard, forcing his tongue into Eddie’s mouth. For a moment, frozen with shock and fear, Eddie begins to think: _‘I deserve this.’_

Then, he twists out of Richie’s grasp and gives him a weak shove. “I said no.”

Richie drops him like hot coals, giving him a blank stare, and backs out of the stall.

Once Eddie hears the bathroom door shut, he breaks down. He sinks to the floor, his body wracked with sobs and the sharp pangs of all the emotions he’s been dulling for the past week. 

He lets himself cry for five minutes, then picks himself up from the filthy floor, and scrubs his hands until they’re raw. _‘I chose this,_ ’ he thinks, as he splashes cool water on his face, _‘I’ll be fine soon.’_

When he steps back onto the dining room floor, Richie is gone. Eddie plasters on a smile and covers his tables.

-

Richie misses work three days in a row. On the fourth day, after learning that Bev hasn’t heard from him either, Eddie goes home early and throws up twice, his stomach aching and his head spinning. He doesn't sleep or eat, he just waits, debilitated by his intrusive thoughts of Richie hurting himself.

He finally stops holding his breath a week later, when Richie shows up at work again looking tired and worn out. It's bittersweet—Richie being alive gives Eddie a sense of relief, but it only makes room for more discomfort to find its way back to him. 

Eddie has no expectations when he steps out into the back alley to find Richie.

Still, he wasn’t prepared to walk out and see Richie crying. He’s sniffling and hiccuping, making no attempts to hide his tears from Eddie.

“I don’t want to talk,” he mumbles around his cigarette.

“I-” Eddie doesn’t know where to start. He wants to say how worried he was, even though it might sound pathetic and fake. He wants to say he's sorry, and that things can be different, and that all of this shit is his own fault. But, deep down he knows it might be too late for revelations like these.

“Alright,” Richie sighs dejectedly. “I’m sorry for roughing you up the other day. But, I seriously need you to fuck off. I want to be alone.” 

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks. It’s the one thing he wants to know the most. Fuck all the guilt, shame, and late apologies.

"Yeah, I'm good,” Richie nods and wipes his eyes. “But let’s not pretend you actually give a shit." 

Then he flicks the cigarette butt at Eddie’s feet, still lit, and goes back inside.

Eddie stays outside, arms wrapped around himself to shield the cold. Bev steps out moments later, holding a paper coffee cup.

“Hey,” she says, draping an arm over his shoulder. “You okay?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I tried to talk to him.”

"I know.”

"How is he?" Eddie asks. "He says he's good but, you know…"

“I think he's going to be okay,” she says, offering Eddie a sip of her coffee. Eddie shakes his head and she continues, sighing. “He says he's starting an outpatient rehab thing. I’m proud of him. I know relapsing and trying to get back on track right away is hard, no matter how many times you've done it before. But, he’s been doing everything he can these last few days, trying to take care of himself."

Eddie tries to take a breath and chokes on it. He looks up at the dark clouds in the sky. "That's good."

Bev steps in front of him and wraps both arms around him and pulls him in close. She rubs a hand over his back and asks, "Are you taking care of yourself?” Eddie rests his head on her shoulder, closes his eyes against his tears, and crumbles in her arms.

///

Eddie has been out of the scene for so long that the stench of sweat and beer, the thrashing bodies, the screeching microphone feedback, and loud, incomprehensible lyrics feel uncomfortably nostalgic.

Bev made him show up. She said it would make him feel better and that it isn't a good idea for him to be alone. Maybe it isn't, but he's numb either way. 

He stands in the back of the dimly lit, debilitated room, struggling to hear his friends over the music. He's been mostly quiet, nursing a warm beer and doing the bare minimum to include himself. Nodding at right things, laughing at the right moments, answering yes or no to the right questions.

Ben, Bev's new boyfriend, is perfect. In the thirty minutes of knowing him, Eddie silently decides that Ben is the closest thing to a real life Prince Charming that anyone will ever get. Tall, handsome, and gentle, with a good job and no debt. 

Stan shows up too, having flown in just this morning. It's good to see him, even though all he does is show everyone pictures of his wife's baby bump the entire time. He's beaming, rambling about how excited he is and about how they'll have to change the spare room into a nursery. 

As they laugh and share stories about their great careers and perfect partners, Eddie shrinks at the realization that they're better than him in every way. Even Bev, Bill, and Mike—they're stuck just like Eddie, but at least they’ve found some semblance of happiness. At least they're honest with themselves, and will never have to feel the pain of the truth shattering the entire core of their being into a million useless pieces. 

No one is surprised when Eddie announces he's going to head out early. They say goodnight and let him go, shouting last minute plans to meet up for dinner tomorrow. 

He leaves the venue and steps out into the cold night, thankful for the fresh air. As he weaves through the small crowd smoking cigarettes out front, he passes Richie.

They don't speak, but Richie’s gaze lingers on him for a few seconds. Eddie averts his eyes and moves on, already brimming with enough anxiety for the night. He heads down the street where he parked his car, envisioning his tiny, empty apartment where he can at least be depressed in peace.

The noisy sounds of the club get quieter, and Eddie becomes acutely aware of another set of footsteps other than his own. There's a small, irrational part of his brain that thinks it could be Richie following him.

He turns, groaning when he finds that it's only Henry Bowers. With his heart racing, he picks up his pace, already digging his keys out of his pocket. His car isn't far now. Just a few more-

"Hey, where are you going?"

Eddie grips his keys in his sweaty palm, walks faster, and calls over his shoulder, "Aren't you too old for this, man? Grow up."

"Don't you know it's not safe for guys like you at night, all alone? Anything can happen."

Eddie can see his car, one of the only few parked in the lot. He keeps his eyes forward and says, “Touch me and I’ll fucking sue you.” 

The footsteps behind him speed up and Eddie spins, just as Bowers closes in on him. He pushes Eddie backwards and Eddie scrambles to find his footing, ending with his back against his car. Instinctively, he holds out his hands in defense, his knees weak as Bowers steps closer and grabs him by the shirt. 

"Why?" Eddie gasps, wishing he could fucking disappear.

"Because I can, and you deserve it." Then, he hits Eddie in the nose. There’s a dull pain first, then the rusty scent of blood. When he tries to breathe in, tears burn at his eyes and a sharp pain spreads over his nose and cheeks like pins and needles. Another rushed breath has him tasting blood at the back of his throat. He’s dazed and seeing double, but he’s aware enough to notice the switchblade at his jaw. 

“I’m gonna stick this up your ass, faggot." 

The edges of Eddie's vision begin to fade to black and his heart rate slows. Bowers keeps talking, but Eddie can't hear him. He’s lightheaded, losing feeling in his feet and hands. Bowers presses the blade gently against Eddie’s cheek and Eddie lets his eyes slip closed, accepting that he can’t change this. Being a victim is ingrained in him.

Suddenly, Bowers lets him go—he collapses to the asphalt without the support, and blinks his eyes open to see Richie across the parking lot. Bowers stares him down, holding the blade towards him like a warning. Eddie is shaking, more terrified for Richie than himself. Bowers charges him and Eddie hears himself scream, distant and far away, like he’s floating up above himself, watching the scene. 

Bowers waves the switchblade wildly, daring Richie to take another step closer. Richie does, throwing himself at Bowers to take hold of his arm. In the struggle, Bowers drops the knife and swings his fist instead, hitting Richie once in the mouth and again in the eye, hard enough to knock the glasses off his face. Richie spits blood at him and hits back harder, sending him stumbling backwards. He holds Bowers still by the collar and hits him again, and again. Bowers brings both hands to where Richie is holding him and tries to pull out of his grasp. Richie hits him again and he's off balance, whining in pain, pleading for Richie to stop.

Every breath Eddie takes gets shorter and harsher, fighting against his tears and the tightness in his chest. He brings his hands to his face and closes his eyes, the sound of bone against soft, wet flesh beginning to fade into a quiet buzz.

He comes to when blood begins to trickle over his lips and down his palms. Pulling his stained hands away from his throbbing face, he looks up and Richie is on top of Bowers.

With both hands at Bowers' throat, Richie hisses, "I'll fucking kill you."

Quietly, Eddie says Richie’s name.

Richie stops and drops to his knees on the ground next to Bowers' limp body, panting. Bowers is breathing shallowly, his face is beaten and bloodied to the point of being unrecognizable.

"Richie," Eddie repeats, holding out his bloody hand.

Richie picks up his broken glasses, and stands up. He takes Eddie's hands and helps him to his feet, staying close to steady him. Already, there's pink bruising spreading around Richie's eye and his mouth is red with blood.

"I might pass out again," Eddie wheezes. His face aches and his lungs burn. "I'm sorry, I can't-"

"It's okay," Richie says, studying Eddie’s face. He finds Eddie's keys under the tire and opens up the back door. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

Eddie shakes his head. "Home," he says, and crawls into the back seat, rolling onto his back.

By the time they get to Eddie's apartment, Eddie is in the middle of another full blown anxiety attack. Richie helps him out of the car and into the apartment, remembering to take his shoes off at the door. He practically carries Eddie into the bathroom and sits him on the toilet. With a clean washcloth and a careful hand, he cleans Eddie's face. 

Eddie allows it, relaxing into the touch—he's exhausted, worn out by his brain rapidly jumping from panic to fear and back again.

Richie drops the towel in the sink and rinses his mouth, taking a second to study his own injuries. His bloody knuckles, bruised eye, and swollen lip. Then, he pulls back the shower curtain and turns the shower on. 

"What are you doing?" Eddie asks.

"It's for you," Richie says, somewhat sheepishly. "I thought it would help. I was gonna leave-"

"You don't have to." Eddie stands, unsteadily, and tugs at the hem of Richie's blood-stained t-shirt.

Richie stops him. "We shouldn't." 

"No, I know,” Eddie rushes out. “I didn't want to- I just... I want you to stay." 

"I- okay," Richie says, his expression softening. 

They help each other undress and Richie steps into the shower first. Eddie steps into the shower behind him and wraps both arms around his waist, resting a cheek against his back. The hot water runs over Richie's head and trickles between them where they're pressed together. Richie turns, runs his fingers through Eddie’s hair, and wipes stray blood from his face. He massages his hands over Eddie’s shoulders and down his arms, stopping at the bruise on Eddie's bicep.

“I hate that I’ve hurt you so much," Richie says, flicking his gaze up at Eddie's eyes. "I hate that I wasn’t there-” 

“It’s okay,” Eddie says. 

Richie exhales, quiet and dejected. “No it isn’t.”

On the verge of tears, Eddie asks, “Can you kiss me?” It isn’t just Richie’s touch that Eddie craves, it’s that unmistakable feeling of being anchored and held together. He lets out a surprised gasp when Richie presses feather light kisses to his bruised face first, before finding his lips.

Within seconds, Eddie is breaking down again, pushed over the edge by the tenderness of Richie’s lips. Richie steps back and lets him cry, guiding him under the showerhead to wash his hair. 

Eddie thinks he’s all cried out once he's out of the shower, giving Richie a clean t-shirt and offering him a glass of water. But when he sits on the edge of his bed with Richie by his side, all the panic and shock subsides to make space for guilt.

“I’m so glad you’re here...like other than the fact that you just saved my life. I know I don't deserve your help but I'm happy you're here and I’m-" Eddie stops, choking on tears fighting their way out. "I’m just glad you’re alive. If you would have hurt yourself, or something would have happened to you I don’t know how I couldn’t blame myself…God, everything always comes back to me. I’m so fucking selfish.” 

“I feel the same about you, which is…,” Richie trails off and sighs, picking at his nails. “It’s really fucked up how much I care about you.” 

“I’m a fucking terrible person. I know that," Eddie sobs, forcing himself to look at Richie's sad eyes. "I’m sorry...I don't deserve someone as good as you. I…don't even know what else to say because every time I think about it, it hurts so much. I'm so ashamed of myself. You're right about me and this is all my fault. I- I'm so sorry.” 

Richie stands up and takes Eddie's hand. He leads Eddie to the front door and opens it, guiding him to stand in the doorway. It's cold out, just now beginning to rain. 

Eddie gives him a questioning look and Richie kisses his knuckles, briefly, and says, “You’re not a terrible person.”

He drops Eddie's hand and takes his cigarettes out of his pocket, offering one to Eddie. 

“I don’t smoke," Eddie says, wiping his eyes. 

“Yeah, you do.” 

Eddie takes the cigarette, feeling at home with it between his lips. Richie lights his cigarette first, then steps forward and lights Eddie’s cigarette with his. 

They stand in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder, watching the rain. Eddie's tears dry up, but the tension between them remains. There’s so much more to say, and Eddie can’t imagine they’ll ever get to the bottom of everything. It’s an unsettling thought, one that turns his stomach.

“Do you really think we could have been friends if I wasn’t as... fucked up?”

Richie nods, keeping his eyes on the sky.

"I ruined everything," Eddie’s voice wavers around the lump in his throat, “I’m so sorry.”

"I know. I'm sorry too," Richie says easily. “There’s a lot of shit I wish I could change.”

They go quiet again, finishing their cigarettes. It feels like they’re in limbo, and that uncertainty brings more panic.

Eddie puts the cigarette butt out and takes Richie’s hand, in a desperate attempt to ground himself. “Will you stay?”

Richie shuts the door and leads Eddie to the bed. Eddie turns off the light and lies down, still grasping Richie’s hand. 

Richie sits on the edge of bed, bends at the waist and presses his lips to Eddie in a sweet kiss. It lingers for longer, coaxing sighs from both of them. He rests his forehead against Eddie's and whispers, "I wish things were different." 

"They can be different,” Eddie breathes. “We can-”

“I just think-” Richie shakes his head and his voice breaks. He sits up and turns away, holding Eddie’s hand in his. “I feel like it’s too late.”

“It isn’t-” Eddie sits up too, tears springing to his eyes, "Can you stay with me? Please Richie, I-" 

Richie sobs, clutching Eddie's hand tighter. 

"I don't want to be alone," Eddie says brokenly. "I can't be alone."

When Richie stands up, letting go of Eddie’s hand, Eddie’s heart drops into his stomach. He sinks to his knees at Richie’s feet, not too proud to beg. “Richie-”

Richie takes one look at him and collapses next to him in the dark, bawling. Eddie clings to him, digging his nails into his back, praying he won’t slip away again.

"I'm sorry," Richie whimpers, going slack in Eddie’s arms. 

Eddie holds him tighter, shifting into hysterics when Richie doesn’t reciprocate the embrace. Eddie knows they’re broken, and imperfect—he knows they're nothing but all the things they hold on to, all of the choices they make, good or bad, all the things that weigh them down and wear on them until they're sore. Until they're made up entirely of pain.

“I’m sorry. I'll be better,” Eddie cries, wet against Richie's shoulder. "I'm so fucking sorry."

With a miserable sob, Richie replies, “I know, I know.”

Eddie lifts his head, pleading into Richie's teary eyes. “Please stay. I need you.”

Richie doesn’t say another word. He doesn't offer Eddie any comfort. Weeping, he clenches his jaw, balls his trembling hands into fists, and closes his eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> I had four different endings for this and my best friend and I analyzed the fuck out of every part of this story. So, if you wanna get nerdy about character stuff and all the subtle details in the dialogue or if you wanna discuss the ending and how you perceive the story as a whole, please feel free. (I'm on Twitter as curiousair or you can leave a gratuitous comment here!)
> 
> If you're sad, [here's a text conversation](https://imgur.com/a/mi4ET3J) my best friend and I had.
> 
> If you wanna laugh, [here are the first character summaries I wrote](https://imgur.com/a/ZmyBDAs) when I thought this was gonna be a comedy. 
> 
> Here are some songs:
> 
> Teenager- Deftones (literally this song is perfect and it fits the story so well)  
> 7 Words- Deftones  
> Ape Dos Mil- Glassjaw  
> Waiting Room- Fugazi  
> Seeing Red- Minor Threat  
> Nervous Breakdown- Black Flag
> 
> Anyway, someone write a story about teenage/young adult Eddie and Richie being little hardcore punk kids and dear god make it happier than this because I’m not capable.


End file.
